


The Piper and Practical Rumouring

by Elpie (Horribibble), Wearydress



Series: The Merry Wives of Witchers [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Branding, Canon-Typical Violence, Daddy Kink, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff, Found Family, Humor, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Knotting, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Self-Lubrication, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:01:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27437758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horribibble/pseuds/Elpie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wearydress/pseuds/Wearydress
Summary: They say there are wolves upon the mountain, and these days, if you listen carefully...you can hear them sing.They're getting better at keeping in tune.-Jaskier was under the distinct impression that he would never leave Kaer Morhen, and it was something he didn't mindtoomuch.Until Geralt returned fromBlavikenwith achild.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Vesemir, Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert, Jaskier | Dandelion/Remus, Jaskier | Dandelion/Vesemir, Jaskier | Dandelion/Witchers, Original Characters - Relationship, Remus/Lambert
Series: The Merry Wives of Witchers [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1786249
Comments: 678
Kudos: 826
Collections: Polyamorous Relationships For the Win





	1. First Daughter

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [With a Conquering Air](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23273713) by [inexplicifics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics). 
  * Inspired by [Share And Share Alike](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23651296) by Anonymous. 



> I want to take a moment to be completely open with all of you, who have supported us and shared so much love--
> 
> We were going to wait until this part was completely done to post it, but today is a _good fucking day._ I suffer from anxiety and depression, and I'm in a poor place financially right now. This fic has been a distraction in a really awful time. 
> 
> It's been hard.
> 
> But today I'm crying for all the right reasons, and I hope this just makes a wonderful day even sweeter for all of you. 
> 
> **Important:**
> 
> As a general note for this installment, sex scenes may include female characters in the mix. We weren't able to tag it, because the tag wrangling on Ao3 is an experience, and we don't want to make the volunteers cry--but M/F is included in our markings. 
> 
> If this is something you're not into, we will be denoting these sections with defined borders. 
> 
> If you don't read this note, _it's not my problem~_ and Weary says I don't have to do the nicely trying to figure out why you're being rude step. 
> 
> Y'all. Get ready to party.
> 
> At this point, this thing needs an anime opening. 
> 
> \- Elpie

The child is called Marilka, and she can be no more than twelve summers old, but she holds herself with the harsh confidence of a grand matron. 

“They threw rocks at him.” She frowns, ignoring Geralt entirely even as the man helps her from Roach’s back. “The bitch stabbed him in the _thigh_.”

Jaskier blurts, “Don’t say ‘bitch.’”

And immediately regrets it as the child _hisses_ at him. “Aren’t you a _Witcher_? What do you care about my tongue?”

“He’s your mother.” Geralt sighs. “He’ll wash it with soap.”

“What?” Jaskier asks.

“ _What_?” Marilka growls. 

-

It takes her a bit to grasp a very abbreviated explanation of wives and the law of the mountain, but afterward she seems a bit more sympathetic. 

“So you’re married to...how many?”

“Four, by my last count. But living here, there’s no telling when I’ll be proven wrong.”

“Poor you.” She huffs. “I can’t _stand_ men. I’d sooner kick one as kiss one.” 

“You won’t have to worry much about that now.” Vesemir sighs, rubbing his temples. “We’ve not had a new recruit in some time.”

“Then I’ll be the first.” 

Jaskier looks to Geralt, listlessly spooning warm stew into his mouth and staring into the middle distance. 

Oh. That’s not good. 

-

Vesemir is kind enough to take Marilka off their hands for a bit as Jaskier guides his troubled husband down to the baths, hoping to wash off whatever troubles him along with a layer of sweat and dirt thick enough to lay stone. 

He’s accustomed to Geralt being _quiet,_ he’s _not_ accustomed to Geralt being silent and rigid under his hands. 

No conversation tempts him, so Jaskier focuses on scraping off the grime, and hoping the quiet leaves him, too. 

“It’s been busy since you left. We’ve got the gardens ready for a new crop, and that ridiculous goat is producing enough milk to drown us all.”

Geralt hums. 

“I missed you.” He presses a kiss to the top of his husband’s head before bringing up another basinful of water to rinse it. “I want to be glad you’re home so soon.”

His husband leans back against the edge of the bath, and back further still, head resting on Jaskier’s leg in a way that _can’t_ be comfortable. 

“You remember the Black Sun?”

“That superstitious bullshit about girls destroying the world?”

He watches the slightest curl of Geralt’s lips. “That one. I met one of the daughters.”

Jaskier is quiet for a moment. Then, “What’s her name?”

“Renfri.”

“...is she still alive?”

“No.”

He doesn’t offer anything after that, so Jaskier urges him to surrender his hands for a thorough cleaning under his nails. 

Jaskier fills the empty space. 

“We live in an ugly world, where men can make up all sorts of superstitious nonsense for the sake of power. Sixty girls tormented for the crime of being born, and no one bats an eyelash. ‘They’ll become cruel creatures, and herald Lilit’s return.’ Well of course they fucking will. She defends _women._ ”

“Not from me.”

“I know you tend to punish yourself, but you need to tell me what happened properly, or I’ll have to ask the angry twelve-year-old.”

Geralt growls at him, pushing away from the edge to turn and glare at him properly. 

“I gutted her. I _fucked_ her and then I gutted her.”

“Not so quickly, I hope.”

Geralt blinks. 

“I murdered a woman.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean _why_ ? I _murdered_ her.”

“I have known you for _one season,_ Geralt, and I know that you have a _reason_ every single time you lift those blades of yours. I know that you live to protect other people. What stopped you this time?”

“She was going to kill them all. Gave me a pretty speech about _lesser evils._ ” Geralt bares his teeth. “There _is_ no lesser evil. It’s all just evil. ...And then she held a sword to the girl’s throat.”

“Marilka.”

Geralt sneers, and it’s the ugliest look Jaskier has ever seen on his face. Uglier still, because it’s directed at _himself._ “She told me she wanted to be a Witcher when I came into town.”

“She still does.”

“Her heart skips.”

“She admires you.”

“She watched me murder a woman and her companions, and then leave the corpse to be _dissected._ ”

Jaskier hisses, “A mage?”

“Stregobor.”

“Of course. _Asshole._ ”

“You’ve met.”

“He lectured at Oxenfurt once. That was enough. We knew better than to leave the girls alone with him.” He pauses, wrinkling his nose. “Priscilla nearly bit the snake.”

“A snake.” Geralt huffs a laugh that isn’t a laugh at all. “Ironic. He hides in a tower full of imaginary naked women.”

“Specializes in illusions and being an utter bastard. That reads. ...He wanted Renfri.”

“And she wanted his head.”

“Both of them tried to pay you?”

“Both of them failed.”

“One got farther than the other.” Jaskier reaches out, and Geralt drifts in closer, letting gentle fingers cup his cheek. “She’s still in your head.”

“‘No man can defy her,’ that’s what he said. But I could have. I should have left. I wouldn’t have known…”

“We both know that’s not in you. She was going to hurt people?”

“Murder every man, woman, and child until he came out of the tower.”

“He wouldn’t have. He’s a coward. A sadist.”

The quiet stretches again. 

“But monsters still have hope.” Jaskier sighs, and Geralt’s gaze burns into his. “You couldn’t dissuade her.”

“She was a child when they had her raped. She would have been dissected like the others. She—” He chokes, rears back again. “She has been.”

“You had to leave her.”

“I killed her to keep her crew from killing the townspeople, but that’s not what they saw.”

“That’s never what they see.” Jaskier sighs and slips into the pool, still in his breeches and shirtsleeves, until he reaches his grieving husband. He wraps his arms around the man and drags him into his arms. “She’s not there anymore.”

“Marilka followed me out of town after the mob dispersed. I tried to make her leave, and she threatened to scream.”

“At least she decided for herself. If only every girl had that choice. That damned prophecy is self-fulfilling. What is any girl but the monster the world makes of her?”

Geralt looks at him. 

Sees him.

Comes to a decision. 

“Has Eskel told you about Deidre?”

-

This time, Jaskier stands before Vesemir in the Great Hall, dripping on the flagstones. 

“Are you...er...alright?” Marilka asks, as if he might be teetering on the edge. 

He probably looks like he’s teetering on the edge, with his teeth bared and his clothes soaked through. 

“ _Darling_.” He says.

“Yes, Love?” Vesemir asks, and does not leave his seat. 

“About _how many_ surprise children would you say this family has to its name?”

“The school, or…?”

“ _How many children_ should live under this roof?”

Vesemir frowns. “Usually we wait until they’re of an age. Some avoid their children altogether. This isn’t a life we _want_ for them, especially without Wives to help care for them. You know we’re not the nurturing sort.”

Something in Jaskier twitches. Softens. “First of all, horseshit.”

Marilka whistles low. “Oh, _he’s_ in charge.”

“ _Child._ ” Vesemir sighs. “Please.”

Jaskier takes a deep breath, shivers. “Annual checks.”

“Pardon?”

“I want every Witcher under this roof who is _technically responsible_ for a living child to perform an annual check into their welfare. And…”

“And?” 

“The Daughters of the Black Sun, should you come across them—I want you to offer them a place here.”

Part of him expects Vesemir to argue. 

Instead, he rises from his seat and smooths his hands down damp sleeves. “It will be done. Geralt’s resting?”

“As much as he can. I came down because it’s...it’s important.”

“I know.” Vesemir kisses his forehead. “I understand. It will be done.”

“Good.” 

“Get changed. It’s time we took a trip down the mountain.”

“What?”

“Get you a few new shirts. Warm boots and a coat for the girl.”

 _“Marilka._ ”

“I’ll learn it, keep your temper.”

She blows a raspberry at him, and Jaskier flaps a hand at her. “Don’t piss him off, _we’re going down the bloody hill._ ”

-

Once, in a book, Jaskier saw a rendering of a creature called a ‘penguin.’

He feels rather like one as they journey down the mountain, Vesemir leading the supply cart and Marilka sauntering ahead. Fall hasn’t begun yet, but the higher altitudes and wind chill make it a nippy journey down. 

_Down._ He’s being allowed _down._

Vesemir sighs and stretches absently. “That girl’s going to be a terror.”

“She reminds me of my mother, a bit.”

Vesemir hisses. “That’s a ringing endorsement.”

“I wouldn’t trust the woman to care for a _puppy,_ but she’s the sort of blood-drinking harpy one wants bargaining on behalf of one’s estate.”

“Hm.” Vesemir smiles that little smile. “We’ll let her lead the haggling, then. See how she does.”

“Mm.” Jaskier nods, and tries not to dance in place. “I’m just happy to make the trip.”

There’s quiet for a moment as Marilka darts off the path and returns with a skirt full of promising-looking herbs that she dumps in the back of the cart. “Are you _always_ so dull?”

“No. Sometimes I chase and eat children.” Vesemir gnashes his teeth at her. “Especially the chatty ones.”

“Ugh.” She rolls her eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to be my _grandfather_?”

“Oh, no. Also your Father.” Jaskier grins. “Though sometimes I call him Daddy.”

She stops short, jaw dropped, _horror-stricken._

“Your birth mother not gotten ‘round to the birds and the bees yet?”

“I lived in a _farming village_ . If I hadn’t yet seen a mounting season, I’d have caught the stablehands bare-assed before long.” She scowls. “You’re buying me _sweets._ ”

And then she marches further down the path. 

“She’ll work off some energy in town.” Jaskier nods to himself. 

“And then you’ll give all of it back with candy.”

More silence, until…

“From now on, you’re free to take this path, as long as someone comes with you for protection.”

Jaskier tries not to smile too hard. “Oh? Do you trust me now?”

“No.” Vesemir smiles a small, wry smile. “I’m less afraid of what may happen, knowing you. Being terrorized by you. Loving you. You’re free to take this path. Just don’t go alone.”

-

“How much for the boots?” Vesemir grunts, turning a fur-lined boot to admire the craftsmanship. “Could do with two pair.”

The cobbler frowns at them, as if he’s trying to puzzle out their presence. “Pardon me, Sir Vesemir. Those are children’s boots.”

“They’re for a child, Ebenn.”

“Oh.” The man blinks, “I’d heard of children on the mountain, but it must’ve been…”

“Before you were a twinkle in your father’s eye.” Vesemir chuckles. “It’s been an eventful day.”

Ebenn whistles. “Congratulations, then! I’ll give you a discount for the boy.”

“Girl.”

“ _Girl_?” Ebenn seems downright impressed. “My wife’s just got done a pair of fine trimmed gloves, if you’d like to look at them.”

Vesemir nods, offering the man a genuine smile. His family’s been in business with the guilds since before he was born, and he’s been a loyal friend to them since. “I’ll be back.”

_If I can pull them from the baker’s._

-

It proves to be a difficult proposition. 

Madame Helene is a muscular woman, gained over years working with heavy doughs and hauling sacks of flour. It’s obvious now, her hands on her hips as she bargains with their newest recruit. 

“I’ll give you one ducat and 50 coppers for two dozen.”

“ _Two—_ you’re knee high to a _gnome_ ! Where are you going to put _two dozen pastries?”_

“I planned to _share_.” Marilka frowns. “There’s other people at the keep.”

“At the keep? You’re awful short for a Witcher.”

“We’re not entirely certain she _isn’t_ a gnome, Helene.” Vesemir teases, resting a hand on each slim shoulder. “She won’t grow big and strong without some help.”

“And sweets?”

“Life is bitter without your wares.”

“Ducat twenty-five.” Marilka amends. 

_Cut-throat._

Vesemir claps a hand over her mouth. “ _Where is your Mother?_ ”

“He went to look at pretty underthings.” Marilka looks at him sideways. “Could haggle for those, too.”

“You’re a _demon._ ”

“A demon with two dozen pastries, Vesemir.” Helene laughs. “You’d best be good to her. And whoever’s wearing those underthings.”

He watches, feeling a bit defeated as his shiny new daughter gathers a basket full of sweet rolls and _smirks_ at him. 

-

Jaskier, meanwhile, has found himself up to his neck in fabrics at the tailor’s shop. The last time he was _this_ happy, three to four husbands were bending him into a tidy, orgasmic pretzel. 

Master Farro is almost as delighted to have him here, showing him his finest silks and enthusing about stitching a proper doublet and _oh you’ll look magnificent in cool tones they’ll bring out your eyes._

“He looks magnificent in everything.” Vesemir rumbles from the doorway. Then, to the child, “You’re a horrible liar.”

Marilka makes a face that might be a smug little grin if not for the bulging of her cheeks. “I dun hafta share deef.”

“Master Vesemir!” Farro smiles. “And...child.”

With sugar-sticky fingers. 

“Good day, Farro. She won’t be touching anything.” He sets a hand on her shoulder and she narrows her eyes at him. “We’ll need a good winter coat for her, a few staples. Would you want a dress, or would it only slow you down, Terror?”

“Are you taking me to a dance or teaching me to stab things?”

“In the right outfit, you can do both.” Jaskier hums, examining a bit of fine silk. 

“ _Fine._ ”

Farro busies himself gathering materials, and Vesemir makes a show of wiping her hands down before urging her into the range of the tailor’s measuring tape. 

He moves to stand close at his husband’s side and whispers, “If you find a soft bit of linen, Lambert will be happy to sew you a fine chemise. Would make him happy.”

“Give him something to stitch up _other_ than himself.” Jaskier chuckles. 

But he goes to look through the linens with a gentle smile on his face. 

-

The clothing, of course, will take some time, but they climb back up the mountain path with several bolts of fabric, boots and gloves, new toiletries, and a massive basket of pastries. 

Marilka finally deigns to share her bounty when Vesemir pats her head and compliments her on her skilled negotiations. 

“The biggest one is for Geralt.” She says. “He’s had a very rough season.”

And Jaskier realizes just how easy it will be to love her.

-

Vesemir lingers below that evening when Jaskier leans over Geralt, brushing clean strands of hair out over the pillow. 

“She adores you, you know? I don’t think there could have been any other outcome.”

“She watched me kill people, and now she wants to do it, too.”

“If you really believed that of her, you’d have lost her on the Path.” Jaskier frowns. “She wants to _help_ people. Like you do.”

“That’s not what she said.” Geralt’s smile is small, but the humor is there in his eyes and the ease of his shoulder. 

“Maybe she takes after Lambert.”

“Gods help us.”

“I think Vesemir hates her.”

“He doesn’t hate her. He’s just giving her the adversary she needs.”

“Is this how Witcher parenting works?”

“He can’t coo at her while he’s knocking her on her ass. Training doesn’t work that way.”

Jaskier flops onto his back, looking up at the ceiling for a moment before letting his head fall to the side, unable to look away from his husband for long. “You want to wager on how long it takes before she bites him?”

“Twenty minutes, twenty copper.”

“It’ll take longer than that to chew through the armor. Forty-five.”

Geralt laughs— _finally_ —and rolls them to pull Jaskier into a tight embrace. 

-

Marilka does not _bite_ Vesemir, but she does swear a blue streak fit to crack the sky the third time he dumps her unceremoniously on her backside. 

They’re practicing footwork first, because no one in their right mind would hand unpracticed children sharp objects without some measure of discipline.

“Your enemy won’t be so kind as to let you back _up._ Keep your feet, and if you can’t— _move._ Stop and you’re dead!”

The point of the exercise is to come in close, land a ‘strike’ by tugging a handkerchief from the old Witcher’s belt, and get out of range. 

Thus far, the girl has attempted straightforward lunges, feinting, and on one occasion, crocodile tears. None have worked. 

Marilka is understandably frustrated. 

“Is it time for break, do you think?” Jaskier mutters to Geralt. 

“Don’t—”

“ _There are no breaks in battle!”_ Vesemir scolds, hands on his hips, golden eyes boring into Jaskier’s _soul._ He doesn’t appreciate the way Geralt scoots away from him, as if distancing himself from trouble. 

“I don’t know. I feel like there’s an incentive system we could work out.” Jaskier grins, and only just glimpses the way Marilka _coils_ behind her teacher. 

She winds up, quiet as a serpent in the grass, and launches herself at the backs of Vesemir’s knees like a cannonball with pigtails. 

And he goes down like a bag of bricks, swearing and struggling the whole way.

The child perches on his back, yanks the scarf from its tether, and _crows_ with satisfaction. “Stop and you’re dead! _Ha!_ ”

Vesemir rolls in the dirt, knocking the child clear, and strikes quick to gather her up in his arms. “ ** _You._ **” He says, and Marilka stills, very aware that this war machine has some hundred pounds and centuries of training behind him. But Vesemir laughs, abruptly, his body shaking with it. “You’ll get there soon enough.”

She wears a smile as easily as all that dirt and pride. 

-

“She’ll be all right here.” Jaskier hums later that evening, the setting sun casting orange light in through the windows of his room. 

He changes into his nightshirt, smiling contentedly, and Geralt watches the light color him in. It’s distracting. 

That’s why he doesn’t quite catch on at first. 

“Vesemir and the others will be good company. The lot of you pretend to be rough, but she’ll have the run of them.”

“But not you?” Geralt grins, sharp-toothed. “You think you can take her?”

“Not at all.” Jaskier nods, toying with the hem as he looks over at Lambert’s sketch rather than the very sated Witcher he’s left on the bed. “I won’t be here.”

Geralt goes very still. “What?”

“I’ve spoken to Vesemir—”

“About _leaving_?”

“About leaving _with you._ ”

“I’m not taking you on the Path. It’s dangerous, and you’re—”

Precious?

Delicate?

_All we have?_

He means these and more. 

“A _bard._ I traveled before I met you.”

“And wound up in—”

“ _A completely unforeseeable circumstance_. Most people don’t place animal traps on the veranda like topiary.”

“Jaskier, please.”

“I’m not asking to tour the countryside with you. Not yet.” Finally, he moves to join Geralt on the bed, resting a gentle hand on the center of his chest. “I want you to take me to Oxenfurt.”

“The bard school?”

“The _renowned institution for the arts,_ Geralt. ‘The bard school.’ How would you like it if I called this…”

Geralt stares at him. “I’ll wait.”

“Shut up.”

“We call things what they are here.”

“Shut up.”

He wraps a strong arm around that trim waist. “You promised to stay here.”

“I also promised to care for you lot, and I think I’ve finally figured out how to do that under my own power.” 

Geralt waits. 

“Novigrad is a pulse point on the continent. A major hub. People of all walks and trades converge there. Some remain, but most leave. And what do they take with them?”

“...supplies?”

“Well, yes. Other than that.”

“STDs.”

“It’s a wonder I sleep with any of you. _No._ ”

“This is a very annoying game.”

“ _Gossip,_ Geralt. People exchange _gossip,_ and they take home what they’ve learned. It’s what makes living in far-flung villages _bearable_. Otherwise you harvest crops and hope you don’t get eaten.”

“The two noble rural pastimes. Of course.”

Jaskier whacks him on the stomach. He pretends to be winded. 

“Gossip travels like wildfire. It’s a precious resource. _Everyone_ wants it. And do you know what increases the spread?”

He wonders if Jaskier realizes that he sounds as if he’s discussing a contagion. 

But there’s a brightness in the bard’s eye. He _wants_ Geralt to know this, because it’s the important part. 

Which means…

“When it’s a song.”

Jaskier _beams_ at him. “ _Exactly!_ You put it to music and it _never_ leaves their heads. They can’t help but sing along, and then you’ve got them. They’re _yours._ ”

A very small part of him is _frightened_ by his partner’s enthusiasm. 

Mostly he just wants to wrap himself in all of that energy. 

“You want to sing songs about us. Make us into folk heroes.”

“You _are_ folk heroes. The folk are just too damned ignorant to figure it out themselves. I don’t intend to lie.”

Geralt squints at him.

“Maybe embellish. For rhyme scheme.”

Keeps squinting. 

“It’s hard to produce lyrical poetry from ‘and then the Cranes bombed the bay,’ Geralt. Suppose they could be a comedic cycle. One man in a dinghy versus fifty feet of angry sea serpent—how _isn’t_ that a comedy?”

“When the serpent ate a bunch of fishermen.”

Jaskier sighs. “ _Heroes._ ”

“I know…” Geralt swallows, takes in the excitement in his lover’s eyes, and tries again. “I know what this means to you—sharing your music, the stories you’ve heard, but it’ll be harder than you think.”

“I don’t think you know how _good_ I am at my job, love.”

“I know you’ll have to be better than Valdo Marx. He’s already circulated _The Butcher of Blaviken._ ”

Geralt closes his eyes, just for a moment. Just to ward off the headache that comes with the memory of children _singing_ it, of countless people throwing stones because they _believe_ it.

He can’t deny that he does, too. 

The room is quiet, which is unusual. 

Jaskier’s fingers are gentle as they card through his hair, but Geralt can hear his heartbeat. Can feel his fury. 

“I’m going to change the _world_ for you. Right after I break his _fucking_ jaw.”

Geralt knows, as surely as he’s ever known anything, that he will be taking Jaskier to Novigrad. 

-

Their goodbyes are short, but sweet. 

Geralt feels a strange, soft sort of pride when Jaskier takes charge of the affair, giving proper addresses and directives down the line. 

He glances at Vesemir while the bard draws Jerome into his arms, and knows that his mentor feels the exact same warmth. They’ve been gone for less than a full season, and already Jaskier has become part of the stone. 

“We’ll be alright.” Oberon promises, slinging an arm ‘round the Griffin’s shoulder. “I will mind Jerome, if no one else will.”

Jerome rolls his eyes, but does not move from his brother’s hold. 

Marilka has not known the bard for long enough to miss him, but it’s possible the _goat_ has, because she makes a sad noise when he scratches behind her ears. 

“Show me what you’ve learned when we come back.” Jaskier smiles at her, in lieu of a hug he hasn’t earned. “I’ll write a song about you.”

And Vesemir, who was expecting a full season of quiet labor with their wife, only smiles a wry smile. He takes them each, presses forehead to forehead, and wishes them well. 

They said proper enough goodbyes last night. 


	2. A Professional Nuisance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The road to Oxenfurt is paved with near-death experiences. 
> 
> -
> 
> Jaskier really is a magnificent traveling companion--when he's not nearly getting them both _murdered. ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the formatting is messed up, it's Ao3's fault, Geezus take the indentations. 
> 
> Thank you guys so much for hanging with us. 
> 
> I told you there would be more characters. _I told you._
> 
> [Pimping myself.](https://elpiething.tumblr.com/)
> 
> \- Elpie
> 
> If y'all wanted, perhaps, to join the Discord:   
> [Beep beep.](https://discord.gg/BCkbeRypYW)

Geralt is a quiet, dignified sort of man.

A warrior of few words and considerable honor. 

Which is why he doesn’t say  _ I  _ **_fucking_ ** _ told you so  _ when they’re tied back to back in a cave system, getting menaced by a reasonably furious elven woman.

He can hear the rasp of her breath, knows that she is sick, but cannot tell if she’s recovering. 

If they aren’t careful, they’ll be worse off. 

But then, there’s Jaskier’s  _ mouth  _ to deal with. 

The woman strikes Geralt, and he increases his efforts to be absolutely obnoxious—to draw attention to himself. 

This entire trip was a  _ terrible  _ idea. 

He feels Jaskier shiver when they break the lute that Eskel brought up from storage, that Lambert polished until it shone, that he played for all of them. 

It stings, but not as much as the repeated hits to the face. 

“You beat a bound man,” Jaskier spits. “Too scared to even look him in the eye! What does that make you?!”

“Jaskier,  _ stop helping. _ ”

“Excuse me?!  _ You lose your shit when I get a splinter. She’s  _ **_hitting you in the face. MY face!_ ** ”

“Your face.” The woman frowns. “Lovers, then?

Geralt can feel Jaskier take a breath in, ready to make her regret the asking. He appreciates the intent, but not the additional risk it will put them at. 

“ _ Yes.” _ He says, flat and firm. “You’ve interrupted us mid-frolic. I was just about to—” 

Another punch.

He wonders if she’d be interested in a career change. 

But he still headbutts her when she comes in too close. She stays on the ground, coughing up blood. Too weak to rise alone. 

This, as so many things are, is another reason to despise their human neighbors. 

“What’s wrong with her?” Jaskier asks, because he is a bleeding heart and an idiot, and Geralt feels the warm swell in his chest where all his love for this fool resides. 

“She’s sick.” Another elf enters the chamber, moving with the grace of authority. It’s only a little to go on—elves as a rule tend to be far more graceful in their movements than humans do. 

But the woman feels relieved to see him, and Torque bends at his side. 

Geralt tries to think of the appropriate greeting for the elven nobility—they have their own ceremonies and traditions, and it’s often best to be respectful. 

But he has a mouth at the back of his head, now. 

“Oh? And who’s this?”

“He’s Filavandrel, King of the Elves.” Torque supplies, looking a great deal more wrong-footed than he did while he was impugning Geralt’s family honor. 

(It’s all right, anyway. He hasn’t got much.)

Filavandrel denies the honor, and Geralt reads the thinness of his wrists, the bowman’s fingers, the paper skin. 

He’s beautiful and he’s starving.

“You were stealing for them.” Geralt says. 

“I  _ felt _ for them. They were forced out of Dol Blathanna.”

Geralt feels Jaskier tense against his back, a childhood among humans driving him to defend his species. But he knows better, now. 

He’s read the records. Knows how far human cruelty extends itself, least of all over land. 

Instead, he says, “ _ Damn it. _ ”

“In fact.” Filavandrel agrees. “Yet you came to put an end to what survival remains to us.”

Not knowingly.

“Toruviel, no one was supposed to get hurt.” Torque frowns. 

“What’s two humans in the ground when countless elves have died?”

“ _ One  _ human. And you can let him go.” Geralt works to remain calm, but he knows where this is going. These people are exiles surviving on scraps, and a pair of outsiders have seen their weaknesses. If he can get Jaskier out of here, it will be a miracle, but it’s one that he wants desperately. 

“Witchers don’t travel with humans.” Torque says. 

“They haven’t in some years, no.” Filavandrel says, his tone softening as he looks over to Jaskier. “Not for decades.”

Geralt shakes his head. Does  _ not  _ panic. “What’s a decade to an elven king?” 

“The years feel much longer when they are lived in suffering.”

“I feel like killing us won’t help with that.” Jaskier interrupts, and Geralt would wring his neck  _ just a little _ if his hands were free. “We aren’t precisely friendly with the locals either.”

“You have some quarrel of your own?” Toruviel sneers. 

And Jaskier says, “They threw bread at me. I think I still have some in my pants. Do you want any?”

_ Because he is an idiot.  _

“ _ What. _ ”

“What?! It’s  _ food. _ ”

“How did you survive  _ before  _ you met us?” Geralt groans. 

“Yes.” Filavandrel actually seems entertained. “How  _ did  _ you meet your Wife?”

“He was stuck in a beartrap on the side of the— _ fuck. _ ”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Jaskier mocks: “Have to keep it  _ secret _ . Can’t let people  _ find out _ .  _ And I’m the idiot?!” _

“They  _ are  _ married.” Torque blinks. 

“So we know something about you, and you know something about us.” Jaskier says, brightly. “Mutually assured destruction. What fun.”

Toruviel  _ hisses  _ at him. 

“Or you could move.”

“‘Move.’” Filavandrel looks the way Geralt  _ feels _ .

“See, there’s a great deal of empty land in the Kaedwen Mountains. Cold as hell, but the soil is fertile and the neighbors are friendly.”

-

“What did you just  _ do? _ ” Geralt hisses as he prepares to remount Roach.

Jaskier stands before him, smiling as cheerily as ever, the elf king’s lute— _ a wedding present— _ strapped over his shoulder. 

“Making friends. Improving your reputation. Keeping us alive…?”

“Do you not trust me to keep you safe?”

For a moment, all there is to hear is the breeze in the valley. 

“‘One human. And you can let him go.’” Jaskier repeats, fingers pressing a string to the fretboard hard enough to leave an impression in his skin. “You would have happily martyred yourself for absolutely no reason.”

“Saving you is not ‘no reason.’”

“I didn’t need to be saved. There was a way out for both of us, and I found it.”

“You won’t always be so lucky. The world is  _ shit. _ ”

“The world is a better place with you  _ in it. _ ”

“Save the lyrics. I don’t want to hear them. If you had died with me—”

“ _ Neither of us needed to. _ If you can’t value yourself, then value what you are to me. I won’t sit quietly while you place your own neck on the block.”

Geralt opens his mouth to argue more, but…

“ _ This _ is my mission. You’re a hero now, and sometimes the hero gets nice things. Like, I don’t know,  _ not dying. _ ”

“ _ I’m not a hero.” _

Jaskier hums. “Really. Where’d Nettly’s coin go again?”

And then he’s off, sauntering down the path and strumming the tune of a song that will haunt Geralt for  _ centuries.  _

-

Geralt has never been partial to cities. 

They’re crowded, noisy, and constantly in motion, which tends to ward off most creatures, and therefore lessens the need for his kind. 

And an uncontracted Witcher lingering in a human settlement is a magnet for  _ rocks. _

He expressed this to Jaskier on the road, and found himself mildly offended when the bard scratched out an equation in the dirt.  _ As time of proximity increases, so too does the likelihood of stones flying.  _

“Is this what they taught you? At Oxenfurt?”

“Gods, you sound like my father.  _ Is this what our money is paying for? _ Chills.”

“Save that shit for Vesemir.”

“Just think of how much you’ll miss me while we’re apart.”

“I didn’t count on saying goodbye  _ twice  _ this season.”

“Look forward to twice as many hellos, then.” Jaskier laughs, and then his fingers resume their dance over the strings. 

Geralt will miss the sound. 

-

Novigrad flourishes, as always, benefitting from all of the banks, the eager tradesmen, and the university across the bridge at Oxenfurt. 

The buildings in the larger city are built of stone and therefore markedly more fireproof than their predecessors, a thing that Geralt always appreciates in city planning. 

The people, less so. 

He tends to travel in less densely populated areas, and the scents and sounds of so many people are always disconcerting until he acclimates. He tightens his grip on Roach’s reins and focuses on Jaskier—where he is, what he’s looking at, the motion of his hands. 

The downward turn of his lips as he looks at Geralt. 

“Are you all right?”

“Mm.” Geralt nods very slightly. “It’s a lot.”

Jaskier takes a moment to look around, paying more attention this time, and seems to realize that the sudden volume of humanity is an entirely different experience for his husband. 

“Don’t worry about it. I won’t be here long.”

The frown deepens. “I didn’t mean for you to rush off. Let’s eat something before you go, at least.” 

Geralt huffs what Jaskier recognizes now as a laughing sound. His fingers flex, wary of reaching out to hold, and Jaskier taps his own against them briefly. 

“The Alchemy’s the only place nearby that’ll serve me.” 

“Then it’s my new favorite.” Jaskier grins, and Geralt leads the way. 

-

Stjepan’s place boasts a red tile roof and a warm enough atmosphere. The food is good, and no one spits in it, which is always nice.

No one bothers him, either. 

Stjepan has even less patience for it than he does the students from Oxenfurt’s philosophy department, and given that Geralt’s presence tends to  _ discourage  _ precisely that sort of customer, theirs is an amicable relationship.

Sometimes they play Gwent and once in a blue moon, Geralt wins. 

He sends Jaskier to claim a table and goes to greet the innkeeper. 

The man is kind enough to inform Geralt of recent events in the area and asks if he’d fancy a game, but Geralt shakes his head and points to the bard fidgeting in the corner. 

“Didn’t take you the sort to take a traveling companion.”

“Times change. He’ll be staying at the university for the season.” 

“Student?”

“Graduate. I have it on good authority that he’s pissed off the entire faculty of the liberal sciences.”

“Mm. We’ll keep an eye on him.”

Geralt blinks, surprised. “...Thank you.”

He must still look troubled when he hands Jaskier’s drink over, because the other man  _ frowns _ again. 

“Stop doing that. There’s no trouble.”

Jaskier smiles a little. “I  _ am  _ going to miss you, you know. But this is important to me.”

Geralt sighs. “I know. You’re good at what you do. Half the countryside is already singing that damned song.”

“And I’ll spend these months working on the other half. You won’t be free of me for a moment—not really.” 

He’s grinning now, and Geralt wonders if this is the bone-deep resignation that Vesemir feels around all of them. 

But it’s not Toss A Coin that Jaskier hums in the quiet corner by the fire. 

  
_ And all the winds are like a kiss. _ _   
_ _ And all the years are nemesis.  _ _   
_ _ And all the moments fall in mist. _ _   
_ _ And all is dust, remember this… _

Geralt is going to miss the answering echo in his lungs. 

-

Outside the tavern, the light is still too bright, the banners still too colorful, the people still too loud, but Jaskier continues to bump their shoulders together and tap the backs of his fingers to Geralt’s. 

They won’t be able to touch at  _ all  _ soon, and Geralt is trying very hard not to appear bitter about it. 

It makes sense again, wives traveling the Path. 

It’s terrifying, but the intermittent peace was worth it. 

And then, as if the universe itself were a vengeful child with a fistful of blocks—

_ “It’s the Butcher! Mind your children!”  _

Valdo Marx, dead man walking, shrieks. 

Geralt has never smelled the signs of  _ hatred  _ on Jaskier, but they are salt-sharp and unmistakable. Roach begins to fuss, and Geralt presses a soothing hand atop her muzzle. 

“Valdo Marx, you pox-ridden  _ lemming. _ ” He shouts. “I’d thank you to keep your foul mouth  _ shut  _ and save our ears the trouble.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt rasps, “We’d best part now.” 

People are stopping to watch. Gathering. 

It’s never any good, in his experience, when people  _ gather.  _

Gathered people become  _ mobs. _

“Oh, no. Don’t you mind a thing this twit says. You’re more likely to catch an itch from him than any semblance of a tune.”

“ _ Julian,”  _ Valdo hisses. “It should not surprise me that you keep company with murderers now, but who else would have you?”

Anyone with functioning eyes, as far as Geralt’s concerned. He’s been damned lucky recently. He should soften his gaze. People find it threatening when he stares like he is. 

“I seem to recall Professor Vysogota insisting that regurgitating  _ base rumor  _ sans context was cheap and meaningless at best and  _ harmful  _ at worst. But that never has seemed to bother you, has it? It’s been so long, I’d forgotten.”

“Jaskier—”

“Not now, love. I’m busy.”

Geralt frowns. 

Louder, Jaskier announces: “His name is Geralt of Rivia.”

Valdo curls his lip in distaste, even as recognition comes to him.

Whispers pass through the crowd, but for once, they don’t actually seem  _ angry.  _

And then, someone hisses, 

“It’s him! You know—”

“Oh! The song, the—”

“That’s  _ him. The Witcher. _ ”

“White Wolf, yeah?”

And  _ damn everything—  _

_ Toss a coin to your Witcher _ __   
_ O’ Valley of Plenty! _ _   
_ __ O’ Valley of Plenty!

They start to  _ sing.  _

Unprompted. 

And then Jaskier pulls his lute ‘round front and starts guiding them into lyrical order, as if this is all a perfectly reasonable way to end an argument. 

Maybe it _is_ in Oxenfurt. 

Valdo Marx storms off in a whirl of expensive cloth and feathers, and Jaskier  _ beams _ at Geralt. “In case you were wondering, I won.”

Geralt nearly jumps clear out of his skin when an actual human child tugs on his sleeve and offers him a  _ flower _ . “Your horse is very pretty.”

He blinks at her, accepts the gift, and says, “Thank you.” 

Because he was raised with manners. 

And he needs to  _ leave. _

-

He escorts Jaskier to the bridge to the university because, to quote: 

“If you leave before I kiss you goodbye, I will be  _ insufferable _ when you return.”

He lingers while his husband smiles at him, presses soft fingers to his cheek and hand, and pulls him into a long, sweet embrace. 

“Be careful on the Path. Don’t talk to strangers. Bring me back something sweet.”

“Yes.” Geralt says. “Yes, love.”

He doesn’t really know if what he brings Jaskier counts as “ _ sweet _ .”

The  _ striga _ might have thought so, when she tried to rip out his heart and liver, but Geralt very firmly doubts their Wife would share her appetites. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> F in the comments to bitchslap Valdo. 
> 
> <3
> 
> \- Elpie


	3. Rich People Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People they come together, people they fall apart. 
> 
> -
> 
> You meet all sorts of people when you're traveling. Some of them don't even try to kill you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the bright side, no one here is ever lonely. 
> 
> You should come say hello on [tumblr, here.](http://elpiething.tumblr.com/) Or drop by the Discord. 
> 
> Wanna hear a funny joke? I joined another fandom. You can check out my Beauty and the Beast-themed Musketeers bullshit over [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27662671/chapters/67691668) and expect an update to White Honey Clinic very soon.
> 
> \- Elpie
> 
> -
> 
> (Weary doesn't have an update because she works hard for the graduate degree.)

Geralt is on his way back  _ out  _ of Temeria, escorted by what are presumably Foltest’s finest, when all of them fall where they stand, breathing but unconscious. 

“Witcher. You can put down your sword. I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Says the witch hiding in the woods.”

“Says the  _ sorceress _ who just wound your brother’s  _ insides  _ back  _ inside. _ ”

“What?”

“He bears the same pendant. Dark hair, thin nose, somehow even  _ less  _ cheerful-looking.”

“ _ Remus. _ ”

“He didn’t introduce himself, but he’s alive.”

“What do you want in exchange?”

She looks at him for a moment, as if he is some strange phenomenon, and lowers her hood so that he might see her eyes. The honesty in them. 

She is beautiful, as so many sorceresses are. 

“I don’t want you to kill the beast. I want you to help me save her.”

-

He eyes his brother, breathing shallow and labored on the bed, wreathed in the earthy medicinal smell of Triss’ herbs. 

“ _ Not  _ a fucking  _ vukodlak _ .” He grits as Triss applies more of something that smells both astringent and  _ burnt.  _ “A  _ striga. _ ”

The sorceress frowns. “They’re old wives’ tales.”

Remus squints at her, offended. “A  _ book  _ did not try to disembowel me this week.”

“They’re very rare.” Geralt amends. “The only way to make one is through a curse. Who do you know around here that warrants cursing?”

Triss closes her eyes and  _ sighs.  _

-

Turns out it’s yet more noble bullshit. 

The most ridiculous jobs always are. 

So naturally Geralt has Triss tie Remus to the cot, and locks himself into the old castle with Lord Ostrit the Chickenshit. 

Fortunately, little Adda only eats  _ one  _ of them.

Still, Geralt thinks, choking on his own blood:  _ Jaskier is going to kill me. _

-

“I don’t like sleeping with you.” Remus mutters. “You run too hot.”

“He has a  _ fever. _ ” Triss hisses, and swats at the other Witcher with a wet rag. “You heal quite nicely. Your will to live is strong.”

“The princess?”

Remus makes an irritated noise.

“I’ve arranged for her to stay a while with the Sisters of Melitele.”

“But...her neck?”

“She’ll heal, too.”

Geralt leans back, and feels Remus’ hand curve over his shoulder. The touch is cool against overheated skin.

“You should know Foltest issued a statement. The honorable Lord Ostrit gave his life to slay the vukodlak. Miners are gathering ore for a statue.”

Remus sighs. “Of course they are. Give them their money back.” He gestures to his things, piled neatly in the corner beside Geralt’s. “It’s Foltest who should pay us.”

“You’ll die waiting, and I think you deserve  _ something  _ for your pain and suffering.” Triss gentles. Then, “Anyone else would’ve killed the princess. You chose not to.”

“Geralt’s kind.” Remus says. 

Geralt huffs a laugh. “And it would upset Jaskier. He’s convinced himself that we’re heroes.”

“You  _ are  _ a hero.” She frowns. 

He takes a deep breath, studying the bandages on himself and Remus both. At the care this woman has put into keeping both of them  _ alive _ , after Remus failed and Geralt remained an uncertainty. 

_ Triss  _ is kind. 

And a gifted sorceress. 

It truly has been a season of firsts, so it feels only natural to ask, “How committed are you to this job?”

The answer, as it turns out, is ‘not very.’

-

They return to the inn where Roach was held as collateral, and from there, the journey is astoundingly smooth. Geralt realizes with some dismay that he very much enjoys having company on the road. 

At least  _ Triss’  _ company. 

Remus is still sore and cranky. “There’s a  _ song  _ about you now, did you know? I can’t get it out of my head.”

“That was Jaskier’s doing, not mine. He’s determined.”

“You’ve said his name again and again, even during your fever. Did you take the bard for a lover?”

“We all did.”

“We…” Remus blinks. “ _ Wait. _ ”

“In our defense, you don’t come home anymore. We thought you were  _ dead. _ ”

“But you still had—”

“Quorum, yeah.”

“So I’m—”

“Married.”

“Shit.” Remus blinks. “Always thought I’d know when that happened.”

Geralt shrugs. “You’ll love him. We all do eventually.”

“That’s a ringing endorsement for a spouse.” Triss laughs. 

But Geralt can’t help but smile. 

He only hopes that Jaskier hasn’t burnt down the university yet. 

-

Jaskier hasn’t burnt  _ anything _ down, but he has intentionally and viciously misplaced the most obnoxious of Valdo Marx’s godsawful hats, and encouraged a Lyrical Ethics study group to publicly analyze the bastard’s latest songs. 

Dean de Boot has urged him to sign on, at least as an adjunct, but Jaskier suspects that this was largely put forth to keep him occupied and far from the old dueling grounds. 

It’s strange to be here as a  _ professor  _ rather than a perpetually hungover student, pouring through tomes and composing the next great something-or-other. 

There are human beings depending on him for an actual, quality education. 

And if he can figure out how to tend a goat and make  _ cheese _ , he can figure out how to teach his  _ actual  _ field of expertise to a herd of eager students. 

He does, technically. 

Just not in precisely the way Dean de Boot might prefer. 

-

Jaskier is young, charming, and accessible, so in some ways it  _ does  _ feel as if he’s among his yearmates again. 

He receives regular invitations to study groups, salons, and bar crawls, but insists upon holding court (when he does so) at The Alchemy. 

Stjepan has his issues with the philosophy department, but a bunch of musicians gathered at his inn, drinking and carrying on with instruments, can only ever be good for business. 

“You speak so often about Geralt of Rivia.” Eve laughs, the light flickering in her hazel eyes and flowing red hair. “You would think he carries the world upon his shoulders.”

If Jaskier were not happily (and repeatedly) married, he thinks he would be in love with her. “Would you not sing the praises of such an adventurous friend?”

“Oh, perhaps, if anyone were worthy.” 

They are. 

Of course they are— _ all  _ of them. 

So he finds himself cajoled into telling his eager audiences tales of the other Witchers within his acquaintance. 

The Bears with their strength and solitude, carrying great beasts over their shoulders and bunking down in the winters. 

The Cranes, setting out on the water in tiny wooden boats, seeking to challenge the blue expanse itself.

Manticores laughing in the face of danger. 

Wolves making swift ground on silent feet. 

He doesn’t talk about the Cats. 

He doesn’t know them. 

He watches signal fires light behind the eyes of his companions. 

They’re eager for stories. Of course they are. 

And Jaskier knows that in the telling, he is caring for his loved ones from leagues away. 

He tells them tales of heroes, and watches their fingers twitch with the need to write a song. 

-

To wit, 

_ Suck it, Valdo. _

-

It’s a strange moment when one goes from thinking of one’s students as blank tomes to fill with information to viewing them as  _ children.  _

This is a university, not some village school, and Jaskier is closer to  _ their  _ age than the professors, but they are still in his care. 

So they come to him for help. 

He’s entertaining Essi in his parlor, enjoying the way their laughter bubbles through the quiet and remembering how much he’s missed his friend. 

Beyond Kaer Morhen, Essi is the closest any place has ever felt to home. 

He’s enjoying their time together. 

And then the frantic knocking starts. 

“Professor Pankratz! Professor!”

Oh, hell. 

He hurries to open the door, Essi close on his heels, and feels his stomach drop when he opens it to Elyan holding Fleur upright. She does  _ not  _ look well. 

“What’s wrong?”

“We, ah...that is to say…”

“We need to know.” Essi snaps. “Out with it.”

“We were, em...intimate.”

Essi looks as if she wants to say something teasing, but Jaskier really does not like the slick redness of Fleur’s skin. 

“What did she take?” 

“There’s a tincture she bought off a cunning woman in town, meant as a—” He pauses. 

“Prophylactic. Go on.”

“Yes, sir. She took it, and she was fine for a while. She really was! But then we were…” He shifts, bringing her closer into his side. “Cuddling. She was singing a ballad for me, and she started to choke. She feels like she’s on  _ fire _ , Professor!  _ Please  _ help.”

“Right.” Jaskier nods. “Essi, you need to get her in a lukewarm bath— _ not  _ cold—and see if you can stir up some yarrow tea. Feed her charcoal, keep her cool.” 

“Me?” Essi blinks. 

“I doubt she wants  _ me  _ to bathe her. I’ll call for the healer on the way out.” 

“Where are  _ you _ going?”

“I’ll have Elyan show me to this woman’s shop. Find out what she used. We should hope it was only a bad batch.”

He knows it can’t have been. 

Old herbs lose their efficacy. 

_ Poisonous _ ones do  _ this.  _

It looks like he learned  _ something  _ from all those hours concocting potions with Vesemir after all. He only hopes it makes a difference.

-

They cross the bridge into Novigrad proper on swift feet, boots thudding across the stones. All sorts gather on the streets after dark, but the two of them must present enough of a spectacle to go unbothered. 

A mere season ago, Jaskier would have been ready to drop by the time they arrive at the shop. He finds himself buoyed by his own increased fitness and a sense of pure, incandescent  _ rage _ . 

Lucky him, the lights are still on. 

He doesn’t bother knocking, but the woman inside doesn’t seem to mind. 

She sits at what must be her workbench, eyeing them loftily from behind decorative silver-framed glasses. There’s no way to tell if they’re a call back to an old need or a new desire to  _ look  _ wise. 

She’s tall, thin, and unnaturally beautiful with short dark hair and cold grey eyes. 

A sorceress.  _ Of course _ a sorceress, toying with naive students like lab rats. 

“Pardon the intrusion, lady.” Elyan says softly. 

Jaskier can’t blame him for his nerves. The woman is intimidating, but he’s met and fucked scarier. “You sold medicine to a friend of mine.”

“Did I?”

“I’d hesitate to call it that. You’re either a criminally poor herbalist or a sadist. I think I know which.”

“How interesting.” Her smile spills across her lips slowly, like she’s trying to approximate an expression she’s only seen in books. “You have the advantage of me.”

“There is no advantage here. You gave a girl black nightshade and called it a protectant.”

“It can be.”

“Not for pregnancy and not in the dosage you gave her.”

“Are you an herbalist, then?” She laughs. “A bit soft-handed for a hedgewitch.”

“I’m Jaskier, and until the year ends, these are  _ my children. _ ”

Something seems to spark in the woman’s eye, and Elyan shifts to stand a bit closer behind him. “Jaskier, then. I’m Lior of Tanith.”

“The pleasure is yours, I’m sure.”

-

There’s a man in clown makeup outside, eyeing them with some interest, but he is the least of their worries. Jaskier fingers the knife at his belt all the same. 

“Elyan, we’re going to start a rumor.”

The youth brightens up at that. They’re entertainers, gossip  _ sustains  _ them. To tell a story and watch it spread carries with it an unparalleled fascination. 

He can almost feel the strings twine about his fingers. 

“That woman hurt Fleur.” Elyan frowns, “I’ll say whatever you like.”

“Good man.” Jaskier nods, guiding his charge further into the night, towards the towers of home-away-from-home. “Next time, just go to the healer for your herbs.”

-

Jaskier should be worried, he knows. 

He never thought he’d see evil in human form, but here he is. 

He knows this woman by reputation—by tear stains on the page, by smears of blood. He hates her  _ through  _ someone else. 

He knows about the Trials, about the sacrifice and suffering they require. He knows that she performed a duty that was necessary to the guild’s survival. He’s reconciled himself with his  _ own.  _

_ But she didn’t have to enjoy it. _

He knew, objectively, that humans were capable of every evil. Sang about it, saw it on the road. He just never thought himself the sort to confront it. 

But Isolde was right about one thing, Lior is a  _ cunt _ . 

She’s more powerful than him, and he should think of her as a threat. 

And maybe she  _ is. _

But he can’t  _ wait  _ to put her in the ground. 

-

Lambert hated cities. They were loud. People were rude. 

And from Lambert, that was  _ saying  _ something. 

The only reason he was in this fucking cess-pit was to drop of a package for lord-who-gives-a-fuck. The only upside to this mess is that he would have the chance to pick up something for Jaskier. 

There’s a Novigradian tailor renowned for her unmentionables. But that was really a gift more for  _ himself  _ than the bard.

...maybe he’d pair it with a pair of nice boots or a shiny doublet. 

Vesemir can’t get mad if it’s a  _ practical  _ gift. 

He’s only just settled on fortifying himself at The Alchemy when he hears the fops gathered in the corner start to  _ whisper.  _

He’s already bracing himself for a spat. Whispers like this were  _ never _ a good thing. He tossed back his drink, ready to go— 

“Excuse me, Master Witcher,  but...what large arms you have.”

“...what?”

“This is the bit where you say, ‘All the better to hold you with, my dear.’”

“What are you on about?”

“It’s the—it’s the tale, you know? The fairy tale.” The boy—he can’t be called a  _ man,  _ all baby fat and riotous blond curls under that  _ ridiculous  _ hat—actually makes a fluttering motion with his hands. 

“Who put you up to this?”

“...no one? You’re just—” The twit holds his arms out to suggest  _ muscles _ and, for reasons Lambert cannot  _ begin  _ to discern, puffs out his cheeks. 

“I look like the sort of person you want to fuck with, kid?”

“The sort of person I’d like to  _ fuck _ , rather.”

Lambert feels himself enter what Eskel calls ‘the struggle.’ He frowns. Thumbs at his mug. Opens his mouth. Does not manage to say anything. 

“ _ Who—” _

“Thistle, what are you doing?” 

Oh. Oh _ , that’s  _ a voice Lambert knows. 

But it most certainly _does not belong_ _here_. 

“How did you escape containment? Your table is that way. Stop harassing travelers.”

“Sorry, Professor.”

Jaskier laughs. “Apologize to the nice— _ Lambert! _ ”

“ _ Jaskier. _ ”

“Oh! Is he yours, Professor?”

“If I say  _ yes _ , will you stop trying to climb in my  _ lap _ ?”

Lambert finds himself on the receiving end of a truly  _ withering  _ glare  before the boy flounces off with a huffed, “ _ Rude. _ ”

“Thistle succeeds eight times out of ten. He’ll be very put out.” Jaskier says, trying for teasing but falling remarkably flat. 

“ _ He’s  _ put out? What are you  _ doing  _ outside of the keep, nettle?”

“I got permission first.”

“And what would possess Vesemir to  _ give you permission _ ? It’s not safe out here for you.”

“It’s not safe for you either. Have you heard about what happened in Blaviken?”

Lambert bares his teeth. “That  _ fucking  _ song.”

“Valdo  _ fucking  _ Marx.” Stjepan spits, and the table full of what  _ must  _ be baby bards lift their tankards and  _ cheer. _

“...He’s  _ here _ ?”

“He  _ is. _ ” Jaskier nods, his eyes harder than Lambert has ever seen them. “And I’ll introduce you gladly, but we’ve a great deal to talk about first.”

-

It’s a great deal easier to deliver unpleasant news after tiring Lambert out, Jaskier finds. And he’s not so eager to go  _ Aard  _ Valdo’s face off in broad daylight with the bard’s head pillowed on his chest. 

Instead, Lambert occupies himself tracing old sigils across the warm expanse of his wife’s back. “Geralt shouldn’t have had to deal with that shit. He’s…”

He doesn’t say  _ the best of us  _ because Jaskier doesn’t like it when they compare themselves to each other, but he  _ means  _ it. 

Geralt and Eskel were his  _ everything  _ for  _ years _ . Still are, often enough. 

And Geralt is  _ kind.  _ Gives a shit more than anyone else. 

And he’s only ever punished for it. 

“I know. I told him so. Vesemir told him so. Marilka told him so.”

“Smart girl.”

“She is. It’s terrible.”

“So you wrote that chorus?” And then, as if Jaskier might not know  _ which _ chorus, he begins to speed-hum the repeating verse of  _ Toss a Coin. _ “Haven’t got that out of my head for  _ months. _ ”

“That’s what I was hoping for.”

Lambert laughs softly, winding his arms tighter. “Only you.”

“Well, no. Also a whole bunch of bardlings down that way.” He taps a finger against the comforter to indicate the floor below. “Surprisingly helpful to my work.”

“Mm. Noisy brats.”

“Speaking of  _ work _ , what brought you to Novigrad?”

“I meet with a friend ‘round this time every season, but I must have missed him this year. Took up a delivery job instead.”

“A friend?” Jaskier grins. 

“I have friends.”

“Of course you do. You’re a delight.”

“Damn right.” 

“I want to meet them.”

“...less likely.”

Jaskier frowns. 

“ _ But  _ I thought I’d take the opportunity to buy a present for you. Maybe something with lace.”

Jaskier buries his face, red with sudden laughter, into the cushion of Lambert’s chest once more. 

And so he counts his wife as suitably distracted.

He’ll tell him of Aiden later. 

-

They can’t well track Valdo down in the town square and punch him. 

That’s the sort of thing that reflects negatively upon one’s reputation. And it would upset the Dean, which would bode ill for Jaskier returning  _ next  _ season. 

“So what we have to do,” Jaskier says, very cheerfully, “is get him to punch me  _ first. _ ”

“What?”

“I can be astoundingly punchable given the opportunity.”

“I  _ know _ . I’m just not sure why you’re giving  _ him  _ the opportunity.”

“Because you’re my bodyguard.”

“I am?”

“You are. And when he  _ tries _ to hit me, I will duck, and you can…” He punches at the air, making a ‘whoosh’ noise. “You see?”

“I really wish I didn’t.”

“And if he does hit me with his limp noodle arms, you can kiss it better later.”

“For the record, I don’t like this plan. And when the others find out, I’m blaming  _ you. _ ”

“Please. It’s nothing a blowjob can’t get me out of.”

“...you’re  _ evil. _ ”

-

He  _ grins  _ like it, too, holding court back at the Alchemy, which is now  _ packed  _ with students and bystanders alike. 

Lambert genuinely cannot tell if these people are more in love with the idea of a fight, or the idea of Valdo Marx eating his own teeth, but people keep offering to buy his drinks. 

He’s a bit busy holding a cool, wet rag to the bard’s swelling eye. 

“I didn’t  _ do _ anything. I just  _ growled  _ at him and he curled up like a babe. Can’t kick a man while he’s down, whining for his Ma.”

No.

Jaskier will do that  _ later.  _

For now, he’s being urged to  _ sing— _ and who is he to say no?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of old faces are popping up, huh?
> 
> But also...
> 
>  _I can stop redacting Remus' BLOODY NAME_ if I had a football I'd spike it. I love him. He is baby.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with us! :D 
> 
> Remember to let us love you! <3


	4. You Keep Your Insides In, They Take Your Insides Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old and new friends gather in Novigrad.
> 
> -
> 
> Remus still isn't allowed anything harder than apple juice, but he gets by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're creeping steadily closer to Part Three, and someone pointed out that this is now officially a _book._
> 
> I need to lay down. 
> 
> I busted my knee rollerskating recently, and now it's hella purple. Please send healing vibes and also say hello on [tumblr](https://elpiething.tumblr.com/) . <3 
> 
> \- Elpie

It’s been  _ years _ since Geralt last saw Remus. 

The man has only been a fledged Witcher for eighteen summers more than he and Eskel, but he’s always seemed distant. His returns to the keep were sparing before the raid, and he kept to himself even then. 

Lambert used to huff and insist that he may as well have been a  _ Bear.  _

But it had saved him, hadn’t it?

While the three of them had only been delayed, Remus had not returned  _ at all _ . 

He hasn’t returned to Kaer Morhen in  _ years,  _ and while the idea of losing another brother had stung them all, it had been a loss less felt than others. 

Geralt regrets that, now. But it’s an opportunity he’s grateful for. 

They’ve found an even-tempered mare named  _ Bonbon  _ who is either preternaturally sweet or completely deaf, but she doesn’t spook easily or jostle her rider when he twists wrong and swears a blue streak. 

Geralt does not know if Triss is a particularly wistful woman or if their manners have reduced her to communicating  _ entirely  _ in sighs, but she keeps a hawk’s eye on his brother from Ravager’s back. 

It is only when they make camp for the evening and Triss leaves them with strict instructions to  _ behave  _ while she forages for herbs and berries that his brother seems relaxed enough to speak. 

“There are so few of us left. I suppose this is the better way to return.”

Far away, Geralt has been told, there are warriors sworn to return from battle with their shield or born upon it. The story had felt achingly familiar. 

“It’s not a punishment.”

Remus growls under his breath. “The place is a  _ tomb,  _ Geralt. We’ve been haunting it for centuries. We’re all dead. It’s just that no one’s fucking told Vesemir.”

Silence stretches between them for long moments, Geralt trying to figure out how to explain all that has changed. How best to impart news that is half bound-up in the mind. 

“A year ago, I would have agreed with you.”

“The boy’s changed that much, you think?”

“He’s going to change the  _ world  _ for us.”

“That’s a lot of faith to have in a human, Geralt.” Remus sounds genuinely  _ sad.  _

Geralt understands. 

But that, too, will change. 

“He’s a bard, Geralt. Not a prince or a general. What can one man with a  _ lute _ do against generations of hatred?”

“Well,” Geralt says, letting his eyes slip closed as a wry smile turns his lips. “He started in the library, and now half the continent is singing the same damn song.”

As if against his own will, Remus begins mumbling to the opening tune. 

Stops. 

“You think that’s enough to change the world?”

“It’s a good enough place to start.”

There is another very long, very heavy stretch of silence. 

Then…

“If he cleaned up the library, and Vesemir didn’t kill him, I suppose he can do anything he puts his fucking mind to.”

“ _ You have no idea. _ ”

-

Triss comes back, her bounty bundled against her chest and her curls faintly tangled from low-hanging branches. Her chest heaves lightly from her recent exertion, and her smile is open-mouthed, all for the sake of air. 

So she has very little patience for whatever strange mood the old men sharing her campfire have found themselves in. 

“Cheer up.” She chirps. “Or I’ll make you drink more tea.”

Remus begins humming  _ incessantly. _

-

On the road, Geralt takes to telling stories of their temperamental ‘bride.’

Remus seems to enjoy them immensely, laughing and sighing at the appropriate intervals as Triss asks questions dripping in laughter. 

Geralt expected that. 

He did  _ not  _ expect to receive stories in trade. 

He does not often share the stories of his travels—has never thought of them as stories  _ to  _ tell. Jaskier insists that  _ anything  _ can be a story, if it’s told well enough. 

But listening to Remus, he  _ believes  _ it. 

Stories of his time on the road, of his close encounters and near misses, of the rare acts of kindness he has been shown. 

Of the incident, a week or so before his failed job in frigid Temeria, when someone had thrown an  _ actual, literal  _ coin at him, and had begun frantically  _ singing  _ to explain exactly what he was on about. 

And then, 

“Did you know that I tried to comfort Lambert once, after a nightmare?” 

He did not. 

“I was fucking  _ bad  _ at it. Just made him cry harder.”

Geralt hisses. 

“D’you know what made him stop?”

“Hm?”

“When I carried him to your room, and tucked him in between you and Eskel.”

…

“I’m no good with people. I’m a rude son of a bitch. But if you think there’s a person on this earth that really might think different…I think maybe it’s good he’s in charge.”

Geralt laughs. “He’s away, now. Summering in Oxenfurt.”

“ _ Fancy. _ ”

“He left our daughter in charge.”

-

They make great time toward Novigrad after that.

-

The thing is—Geralt has some forewarning as to what he should expect, once they find their errant Wife. 

The last time he saw the man, he transformed a would-be mob into a cheerful chorus praising the Butcher of Blaviken himself. 

So when they reenter the city of Novigrad proper and make for the bridge after a very long journey, he is prepared for the noise and the color. He is prepared for the crush of bodies. He tells himself that he does not need to run. 

There’s no way Jaskier has given any ground to  _ Valdo Fucking Marx.  _

Remus stands to his right, head held high even as he limps forward, Triss’ fingers pressed to his arm. 

It will be good to just go  _ home,  _ where they can bundle him into the nest and feed him moose sausage, and Jaskier can croon and cajole him until he loves the bard just as much as the rest of them do. 

And then, Geralt  _ hears _ it. 

There are children nearby, playing a skipping game:

_ Witcher, Witcher, witches fly!  _ _   
_ _ Drowners creep, and bansidhes cry.  _ _   
_ _ Keep us safe when danger's nigh.  _ _   
_ __ Witcher, Witcher never die.

“What the fuck.” Remus whispers. “ _ What is he?!” _

“We don’t fucking  _ know. _ ” Geralt chokes. “ _ But we love him. _ ”

Triss hums the tune the rest of the way to the bloody university.

-

They make it maybe seventy-five percent of the way there before they come upon Lambert getting in a fistfight with a  _ clown. _

He’s winning, which is a plus. 

Two well-dressed women and a concerned-looking fop stand to the side, seemingly rooting for their brother, which is arguably the saner decision in this match-up, but not by much. 

“I know times are changing.” Remus mumbles, “But is this what you were  _ expecting  _ when the season started, or…?”

“Lambert was supposed to go East.”

“And the  _ clown? _ ”

“Fucked if I know.”

The clown goes down, and several people in the vicinity  _ cheer.  _

For a  _ Witcher _ . 

Lambert spits on his opponent and crouches to retrieve a scuffed-up lyre, brushing off the worst of the dirt with his own shirt. One of the women—a willowy redhead—bends to retrieve it from him and presses a soft kiss to his cheek. 

“My Hero.” She grins, “I thought he was going to break it—and where would I be, then?”

“Broke?” Lambert blurts, then, under his breath, “ _ Fuck. _ ”

She blinks at him for a moment before her shoulders twitch with harsh, unrestrained laughter. 

“Moreso than I am now. I have no payment for you. Would you take a kiss from a fair maiden?”

“Eve!” The other woman gasps, as if she is not already composing some ridiculous ballad to this exact moment in her head. The fop toes at the clown with an expensive-looking shoe. 

“Isn’t he Professor Pankratz’s friend?”

“Should I kiss him as well, for keeping such good company?” Her eyes pierce Lambert where he stands, and Geralt can  _ feel  _ the nervous energy coming off his brother. 

But Eve’s smile is sweet and tender as she pulls him down to press a kiss to his cheek, making the cantankerous Witcher sputter. 

Long fingers brush his cheek, where the old scar bisects flesh. 

“Best, ah...best make sure it’s still in working order before you give me all that credit.”

The songstress nods to him, running her fingers over the strings to produce a pleasant chord. “May be I’ll write a song for you.” 

And just like that, she’s on her way, the scent of herbs and incense lingering behind her. 

“So, still a slut.” Remus hums, and Lambert goes bolt-straight, staring at their eldest brother. 

“You’re  _ alive _ ?”

“I saw my liver. Be fucking nice to me.”

-

For all that Witchers form “schools,” their academic education is largely done in small, loosely-organized pods, and a fair bit of it is done outside, where energy is easily burnt off. 

None of them know quite what to do in a lecture hall, except huddle awkwardly in the back row as Jaskier conducts a mob of eager youths through the hallowed metaphysical halls of  _ musical theory.  _

“That’s him?” Remus whispers. “He’s so  _ young _ .”

“Everyone is young compared to us. _ Babies  _ compared to Vesemir.” Lambert whispers back, earning an elbow from Geralt. 

“Pretty enough.” The prodigal brother answers, 

“Do you  _ mi—”  _ The student in front of them, thin and reedy, stops short when he gets a proper look at them. 

“Don’t scream.” Geralt sighs. “Please don’t scream. It’s been a very bad month.”

“ _ You’re the White Wolf.” _

“Yes. Hello.  _ Fuck. _ ” 

Triss starts giggling uncontrollably as the boy shoots out of his seat, waving his arm frantically. “Professor! Professor!” 

“I’ve told you three times, Elias: you can just go. You don’t need to ask!”

“ _ Your Witchers are here, sir!” _

“My  _ what _ .”

And then the kid  _ ducks,  _ arms doing a ridiculous ‘tada’ gesture over his head.

Jaskier stands still for a moment, taking in the entire ridiculous tableau before a wry smile curls his lips. “Thank you for letting me know, Elias. Now perhaps you should climb back into your chair?”

Elias blushes, but does so. 

“While I  _ am  _ very happy to see the White Wolf  _ & Company _ , I think it’s best if we caught up  _ after class. _ ” Jaskier presses his palms together and nods his head in a show of grace. “You’re welcome to stay, but if you’re going to be  _ disruptive,  _ I’ll have to ask you to  _ leave. _ ”

“I can gag Lambert, if you like.” Remus calls. 

And then the snickering starts, and Triss herds them  _ all  _ out of the hall. 

-

Geralt expects some teasing when Jaskier joins them in the courtyard, but finds himself pulled abruptly into a warm embrace, soft lips brushing over his cheek. 

“I’ve  _ missed  _ you.”

“You had Lambert to keep you company.”

“Mm. And you had—” Jaskier pulls just far enough back to look expectantly at the two new additions to Geralt’s merry band. 

“Triss Merigold, former Court Sorceress of Temeria.” Triss volunteers.

And then, “Remus.”

“Oh. Abrupt. ...Bear?” He glances down at the medallion resting on Remus’ chest and goes very still. “Not a Bear.”

“No,” Geralt says. “Wolf school.”

“New husband?”

“Old husband.” Geralt sighs.

“In our defense,” Lambert adds. “We thought he was dead.”

“Nearly was.  _ Striga _ are fucking  _ bitey _ .”

Triss frowns. “She’s the  _ Princess of Temeria. _ At least  _ pretend  _ to be respectful.” 

“ _ She tried to fucking eat me,  _ woman! I feel I’m entitled to be  _ upset! _ ”

“Just the heart and liver, technically—”

“Get  _ fucked _ , Lambert.”

“Oooooookay! This sounds like a story best told with a  _ beer _ .” Jaskier claps his hands, “Best not have quarreling Witchers in the streets.” 

He tilts his head towards the growing crowd.

The increasingly  _ anxious  _ crowd. 

The Alchemy it is.

-

Remus tries very hard not to let the small group of bright-eyed bardlets following them unnerve him overmuch. 

But no one ought to smile like that listening to a story about someone’s  _ innards  _ becoming their  _ outards.  _ Several of them seem to be taking  _ notes. _

It sours him a bit on his apple juice. 

“Did it hurt terribly?” One girl asks. “Was it  _ gruesome _ ?”

“Don’t be a sociopath, Jolly. It hurts tips.” Jaskier chirps, but his hands is gentle on Remus’ arm, which is...nice. 

“Well,” Remus takes a deep breath, trying to think. “You ever been gutted with a pitchfork?”

“Nn.” Geralt shakes his head. “Not like a pitchfork. More...someone tied five machetes to a stick.”

“A really bendy stick.”

“And they drip.”

“I might have got tetanus. Did I have tetanus, Triss?”

“Something is terribly wrong with all of you.” The lady sighs. “But yes, you  _ might  _ have had tetanus.”

“I don’t like this conversation.” Jaskier pouts. 

“You asked.”

“Normal people expect you to gloss over this part.” Lambert explains, as if he is a remotely ‘normal’ person. 

Geralt kicks him under the table. 

“I went to fetch him as soon as I heard.” Triss adds. “I’m not much for combat, but I managed to scare her off long enough to get him to safety.”

“You set her face on fire.”

“Only briefly.”

The bardlets crowd in. 

-

The last few days are something like a very  _ odd  _ vacation. 

When he first dropped Jaskier off in Novigrad, Geralt had been wary of the city, but his reputation precedes him in a way it never has before. 

They’ve never seen such a welcome, and Geralt hesitates to think it might last. 

Jaskier, on the other hand, seems to have every confidence. 

Gathering supplies for the trip back to the keep is easy, but saying goodbye seems to be less so. 

Geralt knows, watching their bard say goodbye to his students, that there will be no keeping him from Oxenfurt next season. He wouldn’t dream of it. 

-

Remus has healed up enough to return to Ravager’s saddle, and Bonbon and Jaskier seem to fall quickly into dumb, horsey love, so they need a mount for Triss. 

One of Jaskier’s students—a youth named  _ Thistle,  _ who seems to make Lambert  _ very  _ nervous—puts them in touch with a local merchant willing to give them a generous discount for clearing out a small drowner’s nest. 

The mare is stately, and presses her muzzle eagerly under Triss’ palm when she dubs the beast Nutmeg. 

“I’m  _ hungry _ now.” Lambert whines. 

So they set out for home. 

-

The road grows shorter in good company and that, Geralt has begun to realize, is what he has. 

-

Three days into their journey, Remus is still discovering new and confusing things about their new spouse. He is exceedingly clever, remarkably graceful, and  _ utterly incapable  _ of shutting up.

At first, it’s sort of pleasant. 

He aims a great deal of his attentions at Lambert and Triss, who are pleased enough to chat with him. 

And then he gets  _ saddle sore.  _

“I am getting off of this horse, and if you try to make me mount again,  _ I will gnaw your ankles off. _ ”

“You’ve suffered worse.”

“I was heavily drugged, plied with ointment, and very well-fucked.” Jaskier growls, and Lambert takes a half-step back. “I have neither dick nor ointment, piss off.”

Remus sighs.“Only thing for it is to stretch. Come on, we’ll gather the firewood, stretch you out.”

Lambert’s crude whistle cracks the air, but he shrinks when Remus  _ looks _ at him.

“But it  _ hurts. _ ” Jaskier whines. 

“And it’ll be worse come morning if you don’t work it out  _ now _ .” Remus whines back. “Take it from me, I’ve been through it enough.” 

The Witcher is deaf to all protest, pulling his  _ darling  _ wife to his feet. 

-

Jaskier is not yet familiar with his most errant husband, but  it occurs to him that Remus has the same steadiness as Vesemir, and there’s a comfort in that . 

So he stifles his protests, if only for the moment, and focuses on the warmth of broad fingers around his wrist. 

-

The quiet lasts for perhaps fifteen minutes before Remus hears the slighter man  _ yelp  _ and then begin hissing and swearing to himself. 

“Spasm?”

“ _ Splinter. _ ”

“Ah. Here, then.” He pads back to the bard on light feet, setting down his burden and urging his companion to do the same. He’d been no little bit pleased to see that their husband did not shy away from base labor. 

“Do you have tweezers?” Jaskier blinks. 

“Nah. Gimme your hand?”

“You can’t possibly mean to  _ Aard  _ a splinter out.”

Remus looks at him flatly. 

“In my defense, I don’t know you well enough to assume you wouldn’t. I’ve met the Manticores.”

The chattering comes to an abrupt end when Remus pops the man’s finger into his mouth and begins to suck the splinter out. 

“So, forgive me if this is t- _ terribly _ ! Awkward, but—what was your stance on the also fucking me business?”

Remus nearly inhales the troublesome wood shard. “You’re a bigger slut than Lambert!”

“I can never tell if you people mean that as an insult.”

The Witcher shakes his head, a wry turn to his lips. “Thought you were saddle sore.”

“You did promise to stretch me out.”

This is all beginning to make  _ so much more sense.  _

-

And that’s about how Remus finds himself sat between the roots of a tree, a husband he didn’t know he had half-turned between his legs, both fumbling at each other’s laces. 

It’s a slow business without the benefit of any concentration. 

Jaskier’s mouth is warm and sweet, and he makes the sweetest sounds when Remus sucks on his tongue, palm pressing hard against his cock. 

The boy rolls his hips into the contact and breaks the kiss, a string of saliva lingering between them. 

That’s…

Soft fingers run up the column of Remus’ throat and cup his jaw, bright blue eyes riveted on gold. He bites his lip, it seems, to stop the growing smile. 

“You like me.”

“Have a feeling a lot of people like you. You’re sweet as pie, you are. And happy. Little joy.” Remus leans in to take in the scent on the boy’s skin, and Jaskier makes a cheerful humming sound.

“Flattery, is it?”

“Just honest.” Remus shrugs, finally wiggling his hand into Jaskier’s stubborn breeches and toying with his ready cockhead. 

He watches with rapt attention, eyes glowing in the dim as his  _ Wife _ grasps his leg for balance, hips working helplessly against his palm, face pressed against his chest.

“Help me?”

Remus is quick to obey, undoing his laces and pulling his pants down ‘round his thighs. Stops short when shaking fingers graze the edge of the poultice on his stomach and takes the trembling hand.

“I’m alive. That’s all that will ever matter.”

“Right.” Jaskier takes a deep breath.

“I’m here.”

“ _ Right. _ ”

“So you should blow me.”

Jaskier blinks at him. 

“I should say ‘please,’ right? Forget sometimes.”

They lose a moment or two when the bard starts giggling helplessly in his arms. “I don’t know how  _ anyone  _ could fail to love you.  _ Any  _ of you.”

Remus blushes, but only  _ a little— _ and it can all be excused by the soft, wet heat of that mouth taking him in with no hesitation. 

Jaskier is  _ intent,  _ rubbing the head against the roof of his mouth and suckling greedily, trying to take more than he probably should.

It’s been a long time since anyone did this for him, and Remus bites his lip  _ hard,  _ fingers tangling in soft brown hair and tugging him closer.

The bard gags a bit, and he tries to pull back, only to be stopped by slender fingers digging  _ hard  _ into his thighs.

Blue eyes bear into his own, and Jaskier  _ will not be moved _ until he renews his grip and begins to drag that pretty face forward onto his dick. That cute nose scrunches up a bit when it meets his stomach, and Remus lets his head fall back against the trunk of the tree.

“ _ Fuck,  _ okay.”

Jaskier  _ hums, _ and he can’t stop himself from canting his hips forward, humping that sweet face.

“Change of plans,  áthas.” He pants, tugging at his lover’s hair with renewed intent. Jaskier makes an angry noise that feels  _ amazing,  _ but entirely defeats the point. “Come on, up now.”

Jaskier  _ does _ , but he looks put out. 

“I don’t know how better to convince you that  _ I want you to cum in my mouth. _ ”

Remus whines.

“Want to see your pretty face when I cum. Want to take you with me.”

Jaskier takes this in, then has a brief struggle with his trousers, and settles himself tidily in the Witcher’s lap, all concerns about lingering soreness forgotten. 

And he’s  _ leaking.  _

Remus remembers that bit, theoretically, but he never expected  _ this— _ such a sweet, warm thing grinding in his lap, looking at him like a bloody sunrise. 

So he coats his fingers in the younger man’s slick and sets to purpose, thumbing at the spongy head and listening to the bard keen before he takes both of their cocks in hand.

“Forgive my lack of finesse, here.” He rasps.

Jaskier just shakes his head, reaching to wrap one hand around Remus’, and uses the other to drag him into a wet, filthy kiss.

What follows can only truly be described as humping, both of them rutting and grinding together, sighing and groaning over the slick sound of wet flesh on flesh.

An owl hoots in the branches overhead.

It can go fuck itself. 

Remus is preoccupied with the way his Wife cants his hips, the hot, helpless noises escaping his lips. At this point, they’re missing more often than they manage to kiss, but watching the man sway in his lap, desperate for a gift Remus holds—it’s intoxicating. 

“Come on, áthas. Sweet boy, cum for me.”

He’s surprised when the sudden sting of  _ teeth  _ on his throat drags him right along, vision bright and flaring, into orgasm. 

-

Lambert grins at them both when they return to camp, firewood in arms, Remus’ soiled shirt slung over his shoulder. 

“Never heard of riding more helping saddle sores.” He snorts. 

So Remus throws the shirt at him. 

He likes the sound of Jaskier’s laugh.

-

When they reach the point where the keep is  _ finally  _ in sight, Geralt takes hold of Jaskier’s pommel and leans in to whisper, “Look up, now. We’re almost home.”

And Jaskier does. 

It’s the most beautiful thing he’s seen in  _ ages _ , and he feels like he understands—just a bit better—what the homecoming means to each and every one of the people who dwell here. 

And then he notices what seems to be a new, red flag on the ramparts. 

“Is that a problem? Is someone in trouble?” He asks. 

And Lambert sits up in his saddle and  _ squints,  _ like some bizarre human telescope, before letting out a loud whistle. “Could be!” He grins. “It’s a woman!”

“That’s remarkably sexist.” Triss drawls. 

“A lucky season, then.” Remus smiles into the distance. “You’ll have a helpmate, áthas.”

Someone new has brought home a Wife. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lbr, these people are like the Addams Family, but with more nudity. 
> 
> Also I literally started to cry _writing_ the children's rhyme, don't @ me. I just want someone to be nice to them. 
> 
> Come hang with us on [Discord!](https://discord.gg/4WTNjcP)
> 
> \- Elpie


	5. Interlude : Elves? In Your Kaer Morhen? It's More Likely Than You Think

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all about the friends we invited to move in along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're sorry for the late update. 
> 
> We've both been having some trouble getting time free to work on this, as Weary is coming up on finals and I'm having...a whole bunch of financial stress. 
> 
> We hope you guys enjoy this interlude, until we can get a bit more worked out. 
> 
> \- Elpie

Vesemir is not about to  _ tell  _ his new gremlin child that the sight of her tramping about in her finished coat fills him with something dreadfully near to hope. 

She spins, and his heart spins with her. 

It’s horrid. 

She turns to him, her braids flying about her, and holds her hands out in a grand gesture. There’s a bandage about her palm where new sword callouses have begun to develop. “Vesemir!” She grins, “Bet you I can do a cartwheel in this!”

“I don’t doubt you can.”

“Pretend to. I need spending money.”

He rolls his eyes. 

The same skill that will make her a keen asset to the keep also makes her a coin-hoarding  _ demon  _ bent on trying every available offering in Helene’s shop. 

Perhaps they should apprentice her  _ there _ instead. 

The girl walks backward, eyes bright and keen as she absorbs her father’s attention. Vesemir, in turn, is preoccupied with handling such cheerful affection again. 

One moment, she’s bragging about her progress in training. 

The next, she is on the ground with the beginnings of new frost and a very thin, very confused elven man. 

“Oh!” She blinks. “You’re an elf!”

“Yes,” He answers. “And you are a child.”

Her mouth flattens into a bemused line. “I’m  _ twelve _ .”

“I’m roughly six hundred twenty.”

“Roughly?”

“After a while, the point becomes moot.” He sighs, then finally seems to notice that the child has  _ supervision.  _

Elves, historically, have never been particularly given to open shows of emotion near humans. So Vesemir is surprised when this one  _ visibly brightens _ , as if the sight of him is an unspeakable relief.

“Master Witcher,” He ducks his head in a brief and unexpected show of respect. “My people have undertaken a great journey to find you.”

“Please forgive me for asking why.”

“We were given your particulars by a very  _ loud _ individual.” He makes a strumming motion with his hands, and Vesemir feels himself age another century. “There were certain misunderstandings, and he urged me to find a man named ‘Vesemir.’”

Vesemir sighs and drags a grizzled hand down his face. “Of course he fucking did. I suppose you want shelter at the keep?”

The elf frowns. “ _ Is  _ there a keep? Every local I have asked seemed rather insistent that I had lost my mind. One asked what a  _ Witcher  _ is. It was  _ annoying _ . Though I suppose I do prefer this sort of nonsense to having my  _ ears _ cut off.”

“Lord Filavandrel!” A  _ sylvan _ —an honest to the gods  _ sylvan _ —comes stumbling along the path, looking winded. “There’s a path over—Witcher.”

“Yes, yes!” Marilka hisses, impatient. “He’s noticed.”

The creature blinks at her, in turn. “And a child.”

“You’re making a very poor impression. Just so you know.”

“At any rate, you’ve found who you were looking for. I’m Vesemir, of the Wolf School. And this ball of rage and sweetcakes is Marilka, a ward of the keep.”

Vesemir doesn’t think he’s mistaking the twitch of the elf king’s lip. He’s old enough to remember. 

“We do not seek to burden you overlong. The bard suggested that there might be viable land nearby. We only seek to support ourselves.”

“And until that time,  _ we  _ will support you.” Vesemir nods, once. Firmly. This will not be an argument. “Come on, we’ve got a roof and a few warm fires to gather ‘round until you’ve got your shelters built.”

And Filavandrel, King of the Elves, squints at him. “Your people are very strange.”

“Thank you.” Vesemir smiles. “How is our friend, then?”

“He has my lute. I felt it an appropriate gift.”

“He’ll make good use of it.”

-

And Jaskier  _ will _ . 

Vesemir has every confidence that he will, because how could one  _ not  _ sing a proper adventurous ballad about a grizzled old Witcher leading two to three hundred  _ elves _ up a frigid mountain pass, reminding them to look out for bear traps?


	6. Punching Village People for Fun and Profit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's where she meets Prince Charming. 
> 
> \- or -
> 
> Coën makes a new friend on the Path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've finally launched a thing I cannot mention here because disclaimers. Whoooo! Working on building a proper, organized presence and getting into a better writing habit. 
> 
> Because I love doing hot girl shit.  
> Like embroidery. And crying about goats. 
> 
> Also--
> 
> I dare you to look me in the eye and tell me that Coën, One Man Brotherhood of the Traveling Umlaut, has eyes that are proportionate to the _rest of his face._ I'll wait. 
> 
> We finally get to meet Weary's c h i i i l d.
> 
> \- Elpie
> 
> Belle is a character near and dear to my heart.  
> Please be gentle. 
> 
> \- Weary

Farbeit from Coën to complain of a productive season. He has ample coin in his store, blue skies and predictable rainstorms, and a cool breeze on his skin to ward off some of the heat. 

But it has been an eventful winter, and for the first time in quite a while, a singular place has begun to feel like home. He must admit that it was  _ nice  _ to have such cheerful company. 

He contents himself: the trees are still full of leaves, but they won’t be for much longer. Soon they’ll start falling, and then so too will the snow. 

It’s nearly time to start heading home, Coën thinks. _Home_.

No longer solely a grim memory covered in snow, he counts himself lucky to think of warm ovens, the scrape of forks on plates, and the low rumble of conversation with his brothers. 

He thinks of Jerome, smiling. 

He thinks of Jaskier, asking to borrow another of his books. 

He thinks of that damnable  _ goat. _

Hell, he hadn’t known what a difference taking the cages out of the main hall would make. 

He looks forward to the winter, for once. 

And so he takes a deep breath and turns his attention towards extending this progress. He has time, still, to take a few contracts on the way home. 

Perhaps he’ll manage enough to purchase some livestock. 

-

This latest contract, as it turns out, is a mistake. 

A pod of drowners had been plaguing the Baker’s Mill in Schaffield. 

The posted contract didn’t pay much, but Coën wasn’t about to watch the townspeople go without bread while monsters fed on their children. 

You’d think a fine, upstanding pillar of the community would be  _ willing to pay the price he promised.  _

But no, Coën thinks, blinking into bloodshot eyes, it’s  _ this  _ again. 

“Wasn’t even that difficult! Only a simple job, you said. I won’t be cheated!”

“Good sir.” Coën sighs, trying to maintain his temper. “I’ve done the job as listed, all I ask is my fair payment.”

He watches the baker’s face turn blotchy red, and resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. He finds that it only makes these types feel condescended to. 

Gods know the man’s ego can’t take it.

“ _ Fair payment _ ? For a  _ mutant  _ like you—” 

Coën’s attention immediately falters at the sight of copper red hair, plaited back from a sweat-dampened forehead. The woman mops at the soft skin of her neck with a crumpled headscarf, and then she catches sight of him. 

Her eyes are an impossible green, like moss in dappled sunlight, and something in Coën’s chest  _ blooms.  _

Her face is round, kind, as are her hips. Round. Not kind. She’s not very tall. Comes maybe to his chest. Gods, what he’d do to hold— 

For a brief and horrifying moment, he begins to understand  _ Lambert. _

“Hey, Freak! Listen to me!”

Green eyes darken, darting to the purpling baker, and for a moment he mourns the loss of such precious emeralds before he smells the acrid tang of  _ fear _ .

_ She’s afraid of him. _

That’s one way to come back to reality. 

Coën wonders, abruptly, how quickly he could leave town after  _ breaking his client’s neck.  _ Nothing so precious should live in fear.

“Good sir, I will not leave here without payment.” 

“Are you threatening me? I’ll call the guards on your mutant arse, just watch me!”

“Just pay, Egor. Please.” The lovely thing sighs, but her shoulders tense as if bracing for a fight. 

Coën respects her determination. She doesn’t falter, even as the prick turns and grabs her by the sleeve.

“Stay the hell out of this, you stupid woman.” Egor barks at his wife, then turns back to the Witcher. “And you! What are you looking at  _ her  _ for? She’d never look twice at an ugly fuck like you.” 

The words make the Witcher tense. 

This is not the first time he has witnessed abuse, nor the first that he will be unable to stop it. He can only make this worse for her. 

But then something happens that Coën very much doesn’t expect. 

He watches this little thing wind up and punch her husband.

She has a rather decent right hook, but he can hear the pop of her thumb as her fist makes contact with the fucker’s face. 

He has two thoughts: 

  * That hand will need to be wrapped.
  * And though he stood infatuated before, now he is _in love_.



He watches Egor topple over with a few less teeth than before.

Honestly, he’s impressed to see that much force behind such a small fist. 

The victorious moment is brief. The woman coddles her injured hand, hissing, and wraps it in her apron before tucking it between her knees. 

Her husband rolls on the ground, swearing a blue steak and clutching his face. “Widge!”

“Enough!” She shouts. “If I'm some pumpin' idjit, how come am th' yin that runs everything whin you’re off yer arse? If he’s such a monster, how come is he treating ye better than you’re treating him!?” 

Her cheeks are growing red—not as red as her hair—but  _ red _ . Her eyes are wide, and she is trembling, but she is too angry to let the fear still her. 

Egor regains his feet, seething with blood spilling from his lips. He means to punish her, and her body prepares for it. 

Coën watches her shoulders fall and curve inward, sees her flinch. 

_ Not today. _

Coën easily catches the offending fist and twists it behind Egor’s back. “It’s not nice to hit women.” 

“She hit me first!”

“I didn’t see a thing.” The Griffin shrugs. “You must have tripped.” He gives a lazy shove, and the man falls back on his ass. “Dear gods, good sir, very clumsy.”

His new friend laughs, rubbing her eyes, and he hates to see them so puffy. 

He turns away from the man on the floor, offering his hand in introduction. “Madam, I am Coën of the Griffin school. I’m sorry for exposing you to such….ugliness. Your husband is a bit of a prick.”

She laughs and takes the Witcher’s hands, eyes bright and unafraid. “Belle Baker. Well met.”

Coën has never been happier to make anyone’s acquaintance. 

But he gets the feeling, glancing back at the sputtering baker, that if he should leave her now, she won’t be here come next season. 

“My lady—” He says, but stops at the sound of laughter. 

He feels lighter just for having heard it. 

This prick will never deserve Belle. 

She’s brave and kind, and utterly fearless to boot. What more could a Witcher ask for?

He can already  _ hear _ the beginnings of a love ballad—the sound of Jaskier’s voice echoing through the hall. 

“Och please, Master Witcher. Am not a lady. Please, just Belle.” 

“Belle, if you’ll pardon me, I would like to make you an offer. I just need to take out some garbage first.” 

Coën bows his head, then kneels down to fist one hand in the collar of Egor’s shirt and the other ‘round his belt before neatly heaving him out the door. 

The portal swings shut with a resounding  _ thud. _

Belle offers him a thoughtful smile, using her apron to dab at the stinging cuts on her hand.

And oh, her hands—they are small, but not delicate. He notes some blotches, some red marks—likely, he thinks, from her labor. And for this, they are all the more beautiful. 

They have known work. They have hauled and kneaded, fought and mended. 

He leans down to cradle her hands in his and startles only a little when she curls her fingers to cup his cheek and  _ jerks.  _

“Och! Me thumb.”

“You tucked it into your fist, when you…” He shakes his head. “Will you allow me to treat it?”

“I’d trust ye more ‘an anyone.”

“You’ll—” He croaks, then starts again. “You’ll never need to hit anyone again. Unless you want to. Wait. I mean, I’ll keep you—my brothers and I will—there are a lot of us, and we’ll keep you safe?”

“And they’ll all agree to this?”

“They’ll love you.”

Her eyes narrow. “This is beginnin’ to sound a bit like some silly fairy’s tale.”

“My armor’s dull, but I do have a horse.”

“White horse?”

“Er, no.”

“Noble?”

“He is very patient.”

“Well he’d have tae be, wouldn’t he?”

He blinks at her, and there is a moment of stifling, nervous silence before she  _ grins _ at him. “Yer an honest man, ain’t ye?”

“I try to be.” 

“'N' you’re sweet on me, tae.”

“ _ Terribly. _ ”

She pats his cheek, gently, with her injured hand, and then frowns down at it. “I’ve got his gob on me. It's dried noo. Ech.” A large sigh. “I’ll need tae know th' particulars .”

He nods. “I’ll tell you everything, and if you decide it isn’t what you want, I’ll escort you to a safe place to start over. ...But we should leave sooner rather than later.”

“Ah would love tae, but let me get yer coin. Ye earned it.” 

They smile at each other. 

\- 

Coën is careful as he hoists her up to mount Artax, not at all distracted by the warmth of her skin through her clothes. 

Belle laughs at him all the same. 

“You’re sure you’re comfortable riding?”

“I’ll be juist fine.” She smiles, and leans over to kiss the top of his head. Then nearly topples off. 

But it’s all right. 

He catches her. 

And they continue on. 

-

In recent years, it has taken some time to adjust to the new Season of the White Horse. Kaer Seren was situated high enough into the mountains that there was no picturesque little village to be found for  _ days _ . 

People stayed well away from them. 

But the villagers of Ram’s Nest see no problem with a slow parade of Witchers passing through, content with their quiet lives. Some nod when they pass. Others call pleasant greetings. 

Kaer Morhen’s proximity means reliable custom and far fewer intrusions from things that gnash teeth in the night. There is something eerily like  _ acceptance  _ here and though it unnerved him at first, now he’s happy to take full advantage of the prospect of warm food and soft beds before the trek up. 

And it  _ will  _ be a trek. 

Belle, bless her, hasn’t made a peep of complaint. Only her stiffness in the morning betrays her, and Coën wishes he had more to offer than his bedroll. 

He turns to look at her, delighted in the simple ability to  _ do  _ so, but her eye is focused elsewhere, a crease between her brows. “Oh.” She says. 

So Coën turns, and…

_ Oh, _ He thinks.

That is a sylvan, haggling with Marcie over  _ eggs _ with a human girl furiously supervising. “2 coppers an egg is  _ ridiculous _ , really.” She huffs. “And we’re buying in bulk!”

“Lass, really, for all the trouble you ought to purchase a few birds!” Marcie urges.

The sylvan hums. “We  _ were  _ thinking…”

“You should!” Marcie lights up at the chance to bargain with the less terrifying  _ adult _ . “Chickens are a good, sensible animal to keep.”

She does not say,  _ Unlike children _ , but she does look at the girl with open discomfort. 

“And you can get your friends to help you carry!” She waves to Coën and his new companion, and he realizes—very abruptly—that Marcie thinks he  _ knows _ these people. 

The girl turns to study him, eyes sharp and assessing before she seems to decide on being  _ happy _ . “Hello!” She says, with a little dip that is probably meant to be a curtsy. “I think I’m probably your niece?”

“Probably.” Coën blinks, then glances at the sylvan. “And you…?”

“ _ Gods _ no.” The sylvan nearly  _ sticks out his tongue.  _ “I just live with you people.”

Belle, bless her, begins to  _ laugh. _ ”Come now, love! Yer a knight, ain’t you?” She gently bumps her hip into Coën’s, a soft smile that makes the Witcher’s heart flutter crossing her face. 

“M’ name’s Belle. What’s yers?” 

“Marilka, of Kaer Morhen.” The child lifts her chin as much in defiance as in pride. “You married to Uncle Beady-Eyes, or…?”

“Uncle—” Purely against his will, Coën lifts a hand as if to check— “ _ Who taught you manners? _ ”

“Literally no one. You’re all terribly rude.”

_ Manticore. Gotta be a manticore.  _

“Your father might wallop you for that.”

“Vesemir’s been trying to catch me, but his hips won’t fit through the windows.”

_ Gods save us, she’s a wolf.  _

“Who’s yer friend?” 

“Oh! This is Torque. He kicked Geralt in the balls.”

Coën wonders if this is what an aneurysm feels like. 

“Well,” Belle hums. “Did he deserve it?”

-

And so Coën and his bride-to-be help an adolescent and a sylvan haul eight chickens up the mountain side—a fitting end to  _ any  _ season. 


	7. Ointment and Peppermint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We'll all get by just fine, I think. 
> 
> -
> 
> In which several people learn baking as _symbolism_ , Jaskier meets his new helpmate, and Remus and Lambert have a very important talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A certain online patronization platform has recognized me as not a robot, and I'm finally getting set up to teach embroidery classes. A lot is going on, but I still love and appreciate the heck outta y'all.
> 
> Check out my tumblr for various links to cool things [here.](https://elpiething.tumblr.com/)
> 
> And check out the OmegaWatch Discord [here.](https://discord.gg/4WTNjcP)
> 
> Also, like...five points to anyone who can figure out the song that I adapted (to horrific result) in this chapter. 
> 
> Weary says she loves it, but Weary is biased. 
> 
> \- Elpie
> 
> The Big Loud meets the Anxious Quiet. 
> 
> \- Weary

Jaskier is not entirely surprised when Marilka runs to embrace Geralt the moment the man dismounts. He _is_ surprised to find himself next in line. 

“I heard it!” She cheers. 

“Heard what?” 

_When a humble bard graced a ride along_ _  
_ _With Geralt of Rivia, along came this song..._

Abruptly, she stops and grins up at him. “I like the part where you called yourself ‘humble.’”

“Sometimes I almost think you like me.” Jaskier sighs. “Lambert, your child!”

Lambert saunters to his side, Remus just behind him, and makes a show of looking the girl up and down. “You’re a little short, I think. What are you, six?”

“You’re a little ugly, I think. I must get my looks from Geralt.”

“ _Ow._ ” Remus snickers. “I’ll fetch the medkit, shall I?”

“Oh, shut up.” Lambert rolls his eyes and produces a candy from one of many pockets, kneeling down to present it to her. “If I bribe you, will you be nice to me?”

“For perhaps twenty minutes at a time.” Marilka grins, bouncing on the balls of her feet, and leans in to plant a quick kiss to his cheek, candy already squirreled away. “Geralt says you’ll teach me knives.”

“That’ll be roughly forty minutes of niceness, lady. Consecutive.” He pauses, then steps to the side a bit, motioning for his errant brother to step forward. “This is Remus.”

Marilka frowns. “I haven’t heard of you.”

“Likely because they thought I was dead. Very nearly was, actually. You want to see the scar? It’s brutal.”

It worries Jaskier that _this_ earns a bigger smile than _candy._

-

Once the horses are stabled, the lot of them mob into the hall, stripping off damp outer layers and shaking off the remnants of long, exhausting travel. 

The fireplace is roaring, and the whole place smells distinctly of cinnamon. 

“Mm.” Jaskier sighs. “Is that…?”

“My new aunt! I haven’t had one since the last plague hit.” Marilka offers, helpfully. “Her name is Belle, and she’s making _cinnamon lacies,_ so we’re all going to be _very_ nice to her.”

“‘Lacies’?” Geralt tries the word. “What does lace have to do with—Jaskier?” 

Geralt can _see_ the dust motes stirring where his husband used to be.

“He left the moment I mentioned a new aunt.” Marilka shrugs, and turns a sly grin on her father. “Say, wanna bet I can’t do a cartwheel in this skirt?” 

Geralt sighs. “Just take the money.”

-

Jaskier is by no means a cook. 

In fact, he spent a significant portion of his formative years _irritating_ the cooks at the Lettenhove estate until Nan very gently explained that perhaps he ought to give up on ‘helping’ and see about composing in a nice, warm corner _far away_ from Cook. 

Now, there is only one woman where an army of them once stood: short, red-haired, and humming a very catchy tune. 

He waits for a moment, nodding along until the pickup before joining in with the lyrics: 

_And o, our acquaintance is new_ _  
_ _As freshly formed dew_  
_But I’ve come to find that I’m mad about you—_ _  
_ So I’ll ask you to call upon me, perhaps—

The redhead turns and claps to the beat of the tune, a wide grin lighting up her freckled face. “A bard! Oh, yer Jaskier, ain’t ye?”

“I am, lady! Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. Or I was before I fucked off up the mountain.” He smiles back, soaking in the sound of her laughter even as he sketches a ridiculous bow. 

It is habit, after years of having noble etiquette _beaten_ into him, to kiss the hand of each woman to make his acquaintance. So in a show of true grace, he bops back upright and makes ‘gimme’ fingers at her until she snorts and hands over the appendage. 

He busses her knuckles, and stops, blinking at the fresh scarring. Peeks quickly at her thumb, and feels an odd sort of pride that his new helpmate knows how to throw a hell of a punch. 

On her palm he feels a roughness, almost like peeling varnish on an old table. His brow furrows at the mystery, and he flips her hand palm-up. 

“Melitele’s grace” The words come without thought as his fingers run over rash-ravaged skin. The whole of the palm is mottled with raised red splotches, some so dry they looked like they may belong to a lizard. He couldn’t see the whole of it, as the rash continued beneath her sleeve. 

Investigating further would only...be even more awkward than gawking at her skin like a tactless _child._

“‘M Belle.” She says, drily. “Nice tae meet ye. What’re ye doin’?”

“I’m being rude.”

“Little bit.”

“Do you mind if I ask…?”

“Skin’s always been like this.” She frowns. “But don’t worry, I wash! And I wear gloves, too. Oh, don’t pout. Don’t. Coën nearly had a fit, but there’s really no helpin’ it.”

Jaskier blinks at her. “There is, though. It’s—this is a _rash,_ Belle. You’re allergic to something. As long as you stop touching whatever that _is,_ it’ll stop.”

“...what?”

“You’ve been exposed to something your skin can’t tolerate. It’s not that you’re sensitive, it’s that you can’t stand _one thing._ Do you know what makes it worse?”

“The washin’. It gets worse when I do the washin’.” She blurts. “Ye can make it _stop?!”_

“I can make it stop! I have lotions, and oint...mage.”

“Pardon.”

“We have a mage! Healer. _Triss!_ ” He tugs on her arm, very delicately _of course_ , and she _frowns_ at him. 

“I’ve cookies at the oven! Be _patient_ , would ye?”

And Jaskier, chastised once again by a flustered cook, goes to vibrate his energy out in the corner. 

-

Triss’ medicine _helps_ , but she insists that Belle rests her hands while the ointment does its work. 

This earns a great big hacking _scoff,_ as if the woman cannot fathom _not_ forcing great heaping masses of dough into submission for a span longer than twenty minutes. 

And then she and Triss frown at each other for a bit until Jaskier says, “I can be your hands.”

Which is a statement he may or may not come to regret.

\- 

Belle sets him to work with no hesitation.

He’s gained muscle from all his work on the keep, but his arms still twinge as she coaches him through endless techniques for kneading, flouring surfaces and shaping boules until the doughy mass is caked under his nails and his fingers _ache._

The oven is hot, and they’re both bustling about so much that they end up coated in a faint sheen of sweat, but the smell of fresh-baked bread permeates the keep until eager eyes congregate by the door. 

Oberon peeks in on them one early morning and is immediately roped into the fray. When Jerome comes looking a bit later, he laughs off his friend’s warning to _run while he can,_ muffled from the pantry. 

Then, not long after—

“Wait, what’s this?”

The Crane shuffles out with a very large urn—marked with a rune that Jaskier hadn’t understood. 

There’s a very good chance they’re all about to be cursed, but there’s not a great deal he can do about it elbow-deep in sticky bun prep. 

Belle hurries to examine what may or may not be an evil djinn, and the way she _screams_ isn’t precisely reassuring. “A mother! It’s a mother!”

Oh, gods. 

“For _bread, ye nit!_ ” She _roars_ with laughter at the look on his face. “Sour-dough! Oh, it must be a century old. We’ll have to wake it up.”

Baking is _terrifying._

-

“So.” Geralt frowns at the dubiously gurgling mass in the jar. Jaskier is informed that Witchers can _hear it_ eating, which is…

Unfortunate.

“So it’s...alive.”

“Yes.” 

“And you feed it?”

“Yes.”

“So it’s like a child.”

“If you could take pieces off a child to make _food,_ then yes.”

Geralt looks at him as if he has been _betrayed._

“Belle says it’s a mother.”

“ _That’s worse._ ”

“But delicious.” Jaskier chirps. “Marilka named it ‘Eli.’”

“I’m fucking leaving.”

-

Lambert, on the other hand, steps in to turn the dough when Jaskier whines that his arms are too tired, and hums cheerfully to himself as he beats the hell out of Eli’s tiny yeasty children. 

“I suppose it’s stress relief.” Jaskier hums, watching the flex of his husband’s arms. “I picture Valdo’s face on my ‘lightly floured’ surface. What about you?”

Lambert grins at him, cheerful as a schoolboy at play. “I just like the sound it makes.”

“Pffffft.”

“Remus is still on restriction. Triss says bread and butter are fine, so it might as well be interesting bread, right?”

Jaskier blinks at him. “So you don’t hate him?”

“Why would I? We’re not _Bears._ ”

“They literally cannot be that bad, Lambert.”

The Witcher stops mid-slap, brandishes the semi-wet mass, and pantomimes caving someone’s head in with it. “Think it’s part of their Trials. Maybe they’re allergic to each other.”

The bard rolls his eyes. “Remus says he used to make you _cry._ ”

Lambert scoffs. “He wishes.”

“No, really. I think it bothers him. He thinks you don’t like him.”

“...He doesn’t like _me._ ”

“You’re joking. I’ve read blue books less ridiculous.”

“ _He doesn’t!_ ” Lambert sets the dough down and hooks his hands on his hips. “He calls me a slut and then _frowns_ at me.”

“Genuinely, darling, I think that’s just his face. And _everyone_ calls you a slut. It’s like a horrible rite of passage.”

“You find me one fucker in this keep who hasn’t stumbled into an orgy. _One._ And I haven’t since…” He jerks his chin at Jaskier. “You know.”

“I know. I’m not exactly a virginal flower myself.” He rolls his eyes. “I think they just like to tease you.”

Lambert closes his eyes and takes a deep, deep breath. “If I weren’t all right with it, there’d be fewer of us in this stupid keep. I’m okay how I am.”

“I know. I love you.” Jaskier reaches across the counter to poke at the doughy blob. “Remus does, too.”

-

_Remus does, too._

Jaskier has all sorts of ridiculous ideas. It’s how he got so good at writing songs, probably. Coming up with frivolous shit all the time to distract people from all the _awful_ in life. 

Making them _believe_ in shit. 

Which is why Lambert is _here_ , standing at Remus’ door at a ridiculous hour. 

This was stupid, right? The fucking bastard was probably just going to frown at him and— 

The door swings open, and Remus leans into the opening. He’s missing his shirt, and Lambert can _feel_ the heat of his room leaking into the hallway. 

Lambert’s never understood that, really—how Remus can stoke the fire into a burning rage and then _take his fucking shirt off._ Like that’s not...

“You’re staring.”

He is.

“I wanted to talk.”

Remus is quiet for a moment, assessing, and then retreats to one of the chairs by the fire. He practically flops into his own, kicking his feet up onto the table, and nods to the remaining chair. 

Lambert stands fidgeting for a moment or two before slumping into the offered seat, the heat of the fire prickling skin through his shirtsleeves.

“I’m guessing you spoke to Jaskier.”

Lambert freezes. “What?”

Remus heaves a sigh, grabbing a bottle up from the floor and tipping it up to his lips. He remains slouched forward, studying Lambert from below. “He has that effect on people. Makes them want to talk. And I can’t think of anything else that would bring you here.”

Lambert scowls. “That’s not fair.”

The older man scoffs. “Big talk for someone who’s squirming like that. I’m not going to bite your head off.”

It should be easy to hold a conversation. 

He’s practiced, over the years—winning friends, sharing cups. He’s _good_ at making people like him, for all the trouble his eyes bring. 

But he’s never once known how to _talk_ to _Remus._

But he has to _try._

“Jaskier told me you don’t hate me.”

“You needed him to _tell_ you that?” Remus looks like he _wants_ to laugh, but can’t quite make the sound come out. “That’s bullshit.”

“I thought you did. I always…I just thought you _did._ You favored the others over me.”

The heat in the room is stifling, and Lambert goes to loosen his collar before he realizes what he’s doing. 

He is not nervous. 

“I’ve never favored anyone over you.”

 _Bullshit_.

“You would praise Geralt and Eskel, but never me. Even Rom, and Rom was—he was shit at _everything._ ”

“Don’t speak ill of the dead. They’ll come back and haunt you.” Remus tilts the neck of the bottle toward him before taking another drink. “And it was for your benefit. You were afraid of me.”

“I wasn’t afraid of you. I looked up to—” He gags himself. 

Remus blinks at him. “You’d _flinch_ whenever I came near you. And that night, when you had the nightmare. I tried to gentle you, and you _cried._ ”

“It was the middle of the night, and you—”

“ _Fuck_ my face, all right? Would it help if I _blindfolded_ you?”

_Huh._

“Are you…?”

Lambert whines. 

“Oh, you little—”

And then Remus is above him, dragging him up and in by his loosened collar. His lips are rough, but warm. The kiss is softer than Lambert expected. 

_Would_ have expected. 

Did _not_ expect. 

“I wanted to take care of you, you little shit—but I _couldn’t_. And that pissed me off.” Remus bumps their foreheads together, gently. “I’m guessing that’s changed.”

Lambert looks into his eyes—gold on gold and terribly gentle. 

“You nearly died.”

“We all nearly die.”

“But I should...I should tell you that I love you, right? Because you nearly died.”

“You should tell me that you love me because you love me.”

The heat in this stupid room…

“Look at that blush.” Remus’ grin is wide and no little bit terrifying. “Still need a yes or no.” 

There’s a soft whine that comes from the smaller Wolf, sword-tired hands grasping bare shoulders. “Fuckin’ do it. Take care of me.”

This time, Remus is eager to make him cry.

-

Remus lays on his back, chest heaving even as he smiles up at Lambert. His feet are planted flat on the bed, thighs a firm support for Lambert’s back, and Remus _keeps_ him there, one broad palm pressed against the damp skin of his belly, thumb stroking heated skin. 

“What are you waiting for?” Lambert hisses. 

Remus’ teeth shine slick in the darkness, and Lambert wants very badly to kiss that smile...but he’s not allowed. 

“I want to see how long I can _look_ at you before you start to cry.”

Lambert lifts a hand to cover his damn blush, but Remus catches hold of his wrist. 

“You’re so fucking cute, you know that?”

“That striga knocked some screws loose.” The younger wolf grumbles, rocking his hips sharply. 

Remus’ fingers tangle with his, rest on the man’s scarred chest, where Lambert can feel laughter vibrating under the skin. “Slow. Work yourself up _slow_ for me.”

He could argue, but he doesn’t _want_ to. 

Remus’ gaze is fixed on him, gleaming in the darkness, and Lambert knows the other man can see every hitch and shiver as he obediently works his hips, biting his lip _hard_ to keep from whining. 

He can see the way Remus’ breath stutters, feel him arching little by little underneath him, feet slipping on the sheets before he catches himself. 

“ _Fuck,_ good job.”

The hand on his belly slides down, circles his cock, and a sensation almost like laughter shimmers in his throat. 

“Tell me.” He rasps. “I’ll be good.”

“I know, I know you are, pup.” 

Lambert keeps the steady pace, feeling the sweat prickle at his skin, the low heat already building in his gut. 

Remus isn’t even _inside_ him, yet— 

His hips stutter with his breathing now, and he wants _so badly_ to be good but it’s getting harder and harder and—

“ _Remus._ ” He whines. 

“C’mere.” The older wolf tries to smile again, but he’s too busy catching his breath. “ _Come.”_

And Lambert does so eagerly, lowering himself to press against his elder, chest to chest, feels warm air on his lips but does not take what he has not been permitted. 

He feels the rough pads of Remus’ fingers still, one hand still toying with his cockhead as the other runs from his hip and down his back, the crack of his ass, and…

Lambert doesn’t know if Remus is laughing or struggling for air, but the rise and fall of the man’s chest makes him sway. 

“You’re looking at me like you want to _eat_ me.”

“Could do that.” Lambert answers, very softly. “I could swallow you all the way down. I don’t gag anymore.”

A soft wheeze. Remus’ eyes drift shut, like he’s picturing it. 

“Is that the kind of ‘good’ you want me to be? I’d like it. I— _fuck._ ” He gasps, biting down on his lip and dropping his head to the older man’s shoulder as two fingers shove in with no warning. 

_Slick._

“When did you—?”

“While you were busy worrying.” Remus rumbles. 

Deeper, deeper. 

And then _exactly_ where Lambert needs him. The angle can’t be comfortable, but Remus is smiling again when Lambert rolls his head to look up at him. 

“Come on, Lam. Rock those pretty hips. Show me how _good_ you can be.”

So Lambert does—rolls his hips with growing purpose into the thick pressure of his lover’s fingers. Doesn’t even complain when the loose hold drifts from his aching prick and tightens on his hip, pressing and pulling as he moves between the feeling of being _full_ and the slickening warmth of Remus’ belly. 

“Hh...ah…” Lambert squeezes his eyes shut, just for a moment. Basks in the feeling of his arms trembling to hold him up. The fever of it. The sound of Remus’ breathing, of oil squelching inside him, of the sheets shifting underneath. 

“Is that how to shut you up?”

Another whine.

“All anyone has to do is give you something to suck on?” 

A third finger rubs at the tender skin at his entrance, and Lambert, for once, does _not_ tell Remus to piss off. 

“Try it and see.” He says instead, catching Remus’ gaze once more before pushing himself _up._

Not far. 

Just at a nice vantage point to watch his partner pant and blush as he works his hips faster, rocking between that full feeling and the swollen cock he would rather be taking. 

He grins. 

“No one’s managed it yet.”

And reaches back to guide the digit in and give that helpful hand a loving pat. 

“ _Fucking slut._ ” Remus smiles. 

He means it, of course, in the nicest possible way. 

\- 

And he continues to mean it when Lambert sinks down on his dick, whining like a very _expensive_ whore. 

Remus holds him, one hand on his hip, the other pressed to the skin of his belly, watching Lambert’s body sway and stop. “Take your time—”

“I know,” Lambert breathes, the sound high in his chest as he stares down at Remus, lips turned up in a disbelieving sort of happiness. “You like it slow.”

“Mm.” Remus hums. 

Finally seated, Lambert props himself up, hands rigid claws in the sheets. His stomach tenses and releases, fluttering, and Remus is caught up in those warm golden eyes. 

Still. 

“I can do slow.” The younger man nods, like they’re working out an action plan, here. “As long as you’ll fuck me _hard_ , yeah?”

Remus groans. 

And Lambert lowers himself again, so much warmth and skin, for a brief kiss. He means to rise again, he does—to ride Remus the way he seems to want. To put on a show. 

But even as one hand digs into the meat of his ass, the other clutches at his shoulder, keeping him right where he is. 

“Lambert.” Remus smiles, “I’ll spoil you any fucking way you want.”

And he’s caught, just like that, as Remus’ hips slam into him _just right._

As his lips fall open, loosing a humiliating, _whining_ chorus of _ah ah ah_ noises. 

As his forehead falls, pressed to his lover’s as they rock together. 

When it’s time—when Remus means to pull out and Lambert says _don’t you fucking dare_ and the hand on his shoulder slides to the back of his neck, damp with sweat and shivering with the rest of him—

Remus presses _up_ and Lambert bears _down,_ and the hot swell of Remus’ knot locks up inside him, and the younger Witcher feels a searing heat as his cock spurts sticky-warm between them. 

“Did you…?” Remus asks, separating only as much as he _must_ to get a proper look at his partner, flushed and whimpering. 

“Yeah.” 

Lambert’s almost too weak to shift against him, gathering his own cum from Remus’ heaving belly and holding it up for inspection. 

“You took good care of me.” 

And Remus can’t help but laugh.

-

Jaskier feels rather like a small village girl, toting a basket full of bread and freshly-churned butter to Triss’ new workshop. The wicker monstrosity will last her and her patients a while. 

And she does have patience. 

Tauriel eyes Jaskier suspiciously from her perch on the mage’s work table. Her cough has improved, it seems, but not her opinion on flighty bards with carbohydrates to offer. 

“More bread?” She drawls. “You’re not going to shove it down your pants first?”

“It’s too hot.” He needles back. “And there’s blueberries in it this time, so be nice to me.”

Triss rolls her eyes at them both. 

Despite the blatant antagonism, Jaskier takes it upon himself to break open a roll and slather it with butter before offering it to the glowering elf. 

“Feeling better?”

“Anything is better.” She huffs.

And then she throws a breadcrumb at his head, which he catches in his mouth. “Filavandrel appreciated the bread.”

“He’s a king. He has to pretend to like you.”

Jaskier gapes, one hand fluttering to clutch the site of such a devastating blow. “ _You_ are a _bread ingrate._ ”

But he catches her smiling, just a little, before he goes. 

He rather likes all this company. 

-

Jaskier wonders if this is what the Wives before them felt like, feeding everyone. 

Wicking sweat from damp skin and smiling at one another as countless expressions of care took shape under skilled hands. 

Belle laughs and flicks a bit of flour at him.

It seems to him that he’s perpetually covered in the stuff. 

His mother would have a _fit,_ and he couldn’t be happier. 

-

Each evening, before Coën comes to escort Belle to her rooms like the bald, besotted angel he is, Jaskier takes care to remove the wrappings and inspect her hands. 

“Little flirt.” She teases. “Tryin’ tae steal me away with all this sweet?” 

“Oh, I won’t need to. They’re very good at sharing, Witchers are.” A pause. “Well, Lambert can get testy if he starts to feel neglected.”

Belle blinks at him. “Coën mentioned...husbands.”

“Lots of husbands.” Jaskier laughs. “It’s not as _oof_ as it sounds.”

“Still fairly ‘oof.’”

A moment of quiet passes between them, Jaskier’s thumbs gently grazing healing skin in the cooling kitchen. “I was terrified, at first. And _unbelievably_ pissed, when I realized just how much they hadn’t told me.”

“Knots.” Belle says, ever so helpfully, and pats his hand as well as she is able. “He told me about it, but hasn’t let me see yet. Says it ain’t proper.”

“There are things they won’t think to tell you. I’ll give you my journal in the morning. We all keep one, I think.”

A few more moments, then— 

“I’ll stay with you for as long as you need me.”

“I suspect I always will.” She smiles, and lifts his hands to her lips for a kiss. 

He’ll fetch his notes in the morning. 

-

Perhaps a week later, Eskel makes his way back up the mountain and into Jaskier’s waiting arms. 

They stand in the courtyard, the bard happily leeching warmth from his patient lover for as long as he can possibly get away with. “Some news.” He mumbles into a broad chest. “Remus is alive, Triss Merigold has opened a clinic in the keep, there are a lot more elves than there were before, Coën found a Wife, and there’s a tiny demon disguised as a child running about the halls. And I missed you.”

“That _is_ news.” Eskel hums into snow-speckled hair. “I talked to Deidre.”

Jaskier shifts to regard him with one blue eye. “Who is…?”

“Child surprise _and_ a Daughter of the Black Sun.”

“Double threat.” Jaskier squints. “I see no child.”

“Her father loves her and keeps her well-protected. I checked.”

“And?”

“And I’ll _keep_ checking, miscreant. Tell me again how you missed me.”

“Mmmm, or you could come inside, and we can all show you together.”

Eskel laughs and kisses the top of his head. 

Stays there for a moment. 

Stays. 

-

As more of their errant brothers return to the Keep, things begin to settle into a working flow, almost like a heartbeat. 

Marilka trains, Belle’s hands continue to heal, people climb up the mountain to visit Triss’ clinic, and down the mountain to help build homes and amenities for a few hundred new elvhen neighbors. 

And then Erland makes it back.

The Griffins have quorum. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who deserves cookies?  
>  _You do!_
> 
> I couldn't just reference a cookie and not share it with y'all.
> 
> **Oatmeal Lacies:**  
>  \- 1 C quick-cooking oats  
> \- ¼ C all-purpose flour  
> \- ½ tsp salt  
> \- 1½ tsp baking powder  
> \- 1 C white sugar  
> \- ½ C butter, softened  
> \- 1 egg  
> \- 1 tsp vanilla extract  
> \- Dash cinnamon  
> Preheat the oven to 325, cover baking sheets with foil and coat with non-stick cooking spray. This is non-optional. Forget this step and prepare to hate your whole entire life.  
>   
> Combine your oats, flour, salt, and baking powder in a medium bowl.
> 
> In a large bowl—a stand-mixer, if you’ve got one—cream sugar and butter until fluffy. Add egg and vanilla, and combine. Finally, add your oat-flour mixture and stir until just combined.
> 
> Drop teaspoonfuls of dough onto your baking sheet 2½ inches apart. The whole point of these things is that they melt into giant lacey sugar puddles heed the inches.
> 
> Bake for 10-12 minute, or until the edges get all golden brown. Let them cool, and then peel off with your fingers.
> 
> Spray the sheet again, and repeat.
> 
> You’re welcome.  
> \- Love, Elpie  
>  _Who ordered the porn?_
> 
> \- Weary, who is away from her usual computer setup, and therefore entrusted me with jotting down her notes. 
> 
> So she cannot actually stop me from reminding you all that she's my favorite adorable little cantaloupe and I cannot begin to describe how cool she is. 
> 
> Rock and feckin' roll.


	8. Something Borrowed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Something old, something new..._
> 
> -
> 
> The Witchers of Kaer Morhen revisit certain traditions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guess what?  
>  _This is the end of part two!_
> 
> I've driven myself 100% batcrap crazy, so if you'd like to check out certain relevant survival links on tumblr - [here](https://elpiething.tumblr.com/) -, I'd smooch your metaphysical essence for real real. xD
> 
> I hope y'all are ready to win friends and influence sociopolitical policy in Part Three. 
> 
> \- Elpie
> 
> Weary has nothing to say so we're going to remind you that Weary is super cute. 
> 
> \- Elpie, manipulating a sock poppet with a precious little hair swoosh.

For twenty-odd years of life, Jaskier has had what might be called an _allergy_ to responsibility. Symptoms include sudden onsets of panic, an itching in the everything, and the uncontrollable desire to _flee._

He’s working on it.

Which is why he stays stock still when he stumbles into the Great Hall to find _fourteen_ men and women kneeling in front of his new helpmate. At the head of the pack, Erland stands tall, an ornate girdle belt of linked medallions hanging from his upheld hands. 

“Honored Wife.” He rumbles. 

And Belle looks decidedly anemic. Her chest stutters as she tries to catch her breath, and then she spots Jaskier. 

He lifts his chin, presses his shoulders back, and taps his own chest as he takes in a deep, steadying breath. _You can do this._

She bobs her chin and twitches her fingers. _Come here._

“Erland.” Jaskier calls, hurrying to stand beside her. “You’ve met Belle.” 

Erland lifts his gaze, the corner of his lip twitching up. “Żona Jaskier. I have missed your songs.”

“Aww.” Jaskier melts _just a little_ at the honest praise. “I love it here. Belle is only just getting used to it.”

There’s a short bout of murmuring, uncomfortable shifting on the flagstones. Kneeling in formation—evidently very uncomfortable. 

“Right.” Belle whispers. “ _Wot’s happenin’_?”

“Belle Baker, this is Erland, Grandmaster of the Griffin School. He’s trying to give you a present?” 

Someone giggles. 

Erland smiles, gentle and good-natured. “It is a ceremony of ours to greet each Wife with a housewarming gift. They are...usually smaller than this.” 

They would have to be, wouldn’t they? 

Unless all that dragon slaying _really_ paid off. 

“But you are the first of a new generation. A hope we did not have before.” Though his grip remains steady, Jaskier spies one wide thumb rubbing at old metal. “This belonged to Coën's grandmother: my Leda.” 

“Oh.” Belle says. “Oh _no._ No, no. That’s—my husband gave me a _rag_ for our anniver’sry! I haven’t e’en any dresses! That’s— _hoooo!_ ” Her fingers tangle themselves into a wretched knot, and Jaskier watches a gaggle of Griffins begin to _panic silently._

“Coën.” Erland says, and the man rises with more grace than Jaskier could ever manage. He takes up a post on the baker’s other side, stroking her back and studying her with golden eyes. 

He nods, just so slightly, and presses a kiss to her temple. 

“No one’s worn it in a century, and it would look very pretty on you.”

“But what if I break it?”

“We’ll fix it.” Coënsays. 

Belle fusses at her skirts. “I’ve nothing to _wear_ , neither.”

“There is a very excitable tailor at the base of this mountain who would be _very happy_ to hear you say that.” Jaskier smiles. 

“I don’t understand you people.” She chokes. “ _This is too nice!_ ”

Jaskier reaches to grasp her hand and tangles their fingers together. “That’s Witchers for you.”

Coën accepts the belt, and both of them see her up to her rooms. 

-

“What does anyone need with that many cocks anyway?” Belle huffs. “ _Fourteen_ cocks, have y’ever?!”

“No. Five husbands. And there’s only ten cocks—four of the Griffins in-keep are women.”

Belle pauses in her pacing to blink into the ether. “I’ve never slept with a woman.”

“I mean...I like them.”

“ _Because you’re a bloody cock, ain’t ye?!”_

Jaskier frowns. “Are you mad at _me,_ or…?”

Belle collapses face first into the pillows on her bed and makes a _beastly_ roaring noise. “I did agree to it. I just— _quorum._ ”

“There is something very strange about fucking by bureacracy.” Jaskier sighs, falling back beside her. “There wasn’t a lot of time for me to decide.”

She lifts her head just slightly to peek at him from her velvet sanctuary. “Would it have been better, do you think? If someone had been with ye?”

He heaves an impossible sigh. “I was in a lot of pain, at first. And then I was drugged to _counter_ the pain.”

She winces. 

“I can’t tell you if it would have been _better_ to have someone convince me that what happened was perfectly all right. Witchers have some very _strange_ ideas about how to do things.” He reaches down to rub his thigh, remembering. “But they’re going to love you. That’s not a platitude. They just _are._ They’re going to care about you like no one in this fucking world ever has before. So that’s what I’ll tell you.”

He turns his head, the rasp of the motion filling the quiet room as he catches her eye. “Whatever their methods. However many cocks are theoretically involved. I don’t think you’ll regret it.”

A moment or two passes in silence before she lifts up again, letting him see that pretty smile. “Yer a _decent_ cock.” She allows. “Whichever way ye bend.”

“I’m not even offended.” He grins. 

And for a while, they stay suspended there: silk and velvet and blooming trust. 

-

A few hours later, Jaskier steps quietly into the hall and shuts the door behind him.

And very nearly has a heart attack when he spots Coën waiting patiently mere _inches_ away. 

“She’s worried.” The Witcher frowns. 

“She should be. She’s only ever slept with one man—if one could call that creature a _man_ —and now she’s signed up for an orgy with ten of them.” 

“...orgy?”

“The initiation?”

“Oh.” Coën blinks. “ _Wolves._ No, we don’t do that.”

Easy as you please. 

‘We don’t do that.’

“What _do_ you do?”

“Would you prefer the short version or the way we usually tell it?”

Communication. _Super healthy._

“Hell. I’ll get the wine, you get Belle.”

-

Griffin courting, like Griffin _everything_ , smacks of a fairytale. 

Coën spins a story that conjures images of distant gardens and favors tucked into the hard shell of armor. _Courtly—_ that’s the term. They all come _courting._

The first night is spent with the Lord Husband—Coën, in this case, as she agreed to marry _him_ (and also twelve to twenty-eight of his closest brothers and sisters.)

(Coën makes a face, and Belle tops off his glass.)

Each night after that— 

“How long does this usually _take?_ ”

Coën frowns, “A night per Griffin, if we’re following propriety.”

“Oh, sure. Ye. ‘Propriety.’”

Jaskier lifts his cup aloft and toasts, “Tradition!”

 _Each night after that_ , beginning with Erland, each suitor is meant to bring her a gift—

“ _More_ gifts?” Belle squeaks, and Coën lifts her hand to buss a kiss over her knuckles.

“As you deserve.”

—and ask to ‘visit’ with her. 

She arches a brow, examining the way the wine sloshes in her cup.

“No one expects anything you don’t want to give.”

“And if I want to give it?”

“At least three new kinks you didn’t know you had.” Jaskier drawls. “And a mark on your ass.”

“ _It’s on your ass?!”_

There’s a moment of _utter stillness._

Then, “It didn’t _have to be?_ ”

Silence.

 _“Hand me the bottle._ Just…” He twirls his hand in a motion to continue, and necks the wine. 

“ _Wolves,”_ Coën sighs.

Belle sways into the bard’s side to pat his arm, only a bit sloppy in her movements. “Unconditional love, right?”

_“I’m going to write a bloody pamphlet.”_

-

That night, when Jaskier crawls into the silk-pillowed monstrosity of Belle’s bed, she turns to him with mischievous eyes and whispers, “ _Right_ . But can I _see?”_

He thinks she’ll be just fine. 

-

And she is. 

She’s _magnificent._

Coën brings her that dress he promised just before dinner, and for all she blushes and insists that it’s _just too much,_ she turns and turns in circles to show off how it flares and spins. 

Marilka tells her she looks like an _angel,_ and she _glows_ like it, too. 

The next morning, she emerges for breakfast with frizzy hair and the biggest shit-eating grin Jaskier has ever seen _not_ on Lambert’s face. 

(Lambert, for his part, looks rather pleased with himself each time Remus passes him the bread basket, and Jaskier is just content enough not to ask _what he did._ )

On the second day, Belle dons the dress again, this time with Leda’s belt about her hips. Erland looks, for a moment, as if he might _cry_ as he bends to kiss her hand and ask for a moment of her time. 

He dances her in turns about the hall, and she laughs—loud and booming. 

And that evening—rather than wait for the next day—Jerome approaches to ask her if she might teach him to make those cinnamon rolls that Oberon liked. 

When Jaskier joins her in the kitchens the next morning, she beams as she points to her new carved rolling pin—flowers etched into the body that will leave beautiful imprints in her next batch of sugar cookies. 

He marvels at the craftsmanship, genuinely impressed at the detail, and how very _considerate_ it is.

And then Belle places trembling fingers over his. “They really will love me, won’t they?”

Jaskier shrugs. His smile can truly only be described as helpless. “They already do.”

She’s going to make them all _wonderfully_ fat before they head out again. 

And so goes the Lady’s Choice. 

-

Perhaps a week later, Belle nearly radiates warmth when she comes to join her helpmate in the library, rosy-cheeked and _resplendent_ in the forest green dress Elodie added to her trousseau. 

“My Lady,” Jaskier bows at the waist, flourishing as he might for a noble patron—that is, he makes a ham of himself. “No Queen could match you. How _did_ you end up here?”

“Ponce.” She chirps. Then, “My new husband punched the old one in the face.”

 _“And she fell in love instantly.”_ He sighs. 

She throws a wad of notepaper at him. “What are ye doin’ in here?”

“Research. For the pamphlet, you know.”

She eyes him. 

“All right, I like to learn about the others. There’s history in every single blot of _ink_ here.” He pulls a ledger down and lets it fall open where it may. “‘Mother Yfridd, Belov éd of Fimon.’ _Ugh,_ the ‘f’s. She loved these madpeople for—” 

He freezes.

Belle watches him expectantly for a few moments more before asking, “What’s it?”

“I am either having a stroke, or this is a clerical error.”

“Can’t hurt to ask.”

One hopes. 

-

“Eskel!” Jaskier cries, legging it down the hall with Belle at his heels, frowning with confusion. “Look at this.”

And then the thing is _centimeters_ from his _face,_ and he can hear his Wife’s heartbeat rabbiting in his chest. 

“What’s wrong?” He frowns, and the tome is drawn away.

Jaskier levels him with a wild stare. “Mother Yfridd—how old was she when she died?”

“I want to say...three hundred twenty...six?”

“Three wot? Twenty _wot?_ ” Belle hisses. 

“She was a battleaxe, too. Would’ve lived longer if she’d just worn a damn _helmet._ ”

“ ** _She what._ ** **”**

“Oh.” Eskel says. “That’s pretty normal for...oh.”

-

_Functional._

_Fucking._

_Immortality._

-

Jaskier lies awake in the grey light before dawn, surrounded by warm, snoring husbands with his head propped up on Vesemir’s chest. The grey wolf keeps one arm wrapped around him, blunt nails raking in gentle circles over his hip. 

“It’s early still. You should be sleeping.”

“I have time for that.”

He rises and falls with the rasp of Vesemir’s laughter. “Do you?”

“I’m immortal.”

Vesemir frowns, lip twitching up in amusement before flattening again. “Ah.”

“You thought I knew?”

The older man’s eyes slide sideways, lighting on Eskel. “Thought he told you.”

“That’s a shit excuse.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Hm. Shitty apology.”

The nails on his skin flatten to a warm palm cradling him close.

“Working on it, though.”

Jaskier shrugs, but does not move away. “I’ll forgive you in a few hours, anyway.”

He has all the time in the world to be annoyed with this man, and then to forgive him all over again. 

He has _centuries._

-

He thinks about this, as he sits with Belle in the kitchens—the room in which she will always be most comfortable—holding her hand as she sits on the countertop and forgets not to hold her breath. 

Her grip is vice tight, but she sits perfectly still as her husbands gather around her, bare to the waist, sweat glistening on her skin. She looks impossibly powerful to him.

Elodie reminds her, again, to breathe out.

They have centuries. 

The brand glows from the heat, and Belle says as much, glancing at Jaskier from the corner of her eye. 

“Here’s to this shit.” She says, “It’ll be a fuckin’ adventure.”

And then there’s a Griffin on her belly, quivering with her breath. 

“ _Fuck_ .” She says, rasping and shaking and _laughing_ . “ _And yours is on your_ **_ass!_ **” 

He can’t help but laugh along. 

She hasn’t tasted the _medicine_ yet. 

-

The Keep is full of these sounds, and Jaskier composes to them. 

He thinks of the coming Spring, another year of watching his husbands and brothers leave for the Path. Of going with them. Of teaching at Oxenfurt. 

Of composing songs for all the stories he’s learned, and all of the men and women he’s come to love. 

He composes a ballad to the strength of Belle’s hands and her heart, and the way she snorts—just a little—when she laughs. 

Another to Marilka, who will conquer the world once they give her a chance, but keep it in much better condition than she found it. 

To Torque and Toruviel and Filavandrel, and the elven people who have taught him so many new songs between thatching roofs and expanding the village that will always have room for them. 

To Remus, who smiles now. 

To centuries. 

And then a letter comes from Cintra. 

-

All right, so he’s not such a ‘humble’ bard.

**Author's Note:**

> Check Out:  
> \- Elpie's [tumblr,](https://elpiething.tumblr.com/) where you can find links to more forms of media and embroidery. ;)  
> \- The Omegawatch Discord, a multifandom delight located [here](https://discord.gg/4WTNjcP)


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